Christmastide Chronicles
by W. Y. Traveller
Summary: Responses to Hades Lord of the Dead's SH 2018 December Calendar Challenge. Prompt 31: New Year's resolutions for the 221B inhabitants. Complete!
1. Greetings

_A/N: Responses to Hades Lord of the Dead's SH December Calendar Challenge. I am delighted to be taking part this year and hope my absence hasn't corrupted the poor writing muse._

 _Prompt 01: From BookRookie12 – Greetings._

* * *

 **Greetings**

* * *

It is growing dark when the doctor walks home, the sky a harsh black smudge over its earlier colour, the moonlight pushing its way through. The city jostles for space, people bumping into him with muttered apologies, clutching parcels tight to their chests. Children run past with shining faces and he thinks he spots Wiggins amongst them; tattered scarf ends flying and a muffled shout of Watson's name.

Watson is tired; more tired than he's felt in a long time. Seven deaths in the space of a month and he feels like he's seen enough, has had his share to last a lifetime. His leg is aching its way into a familiar feeling, not quite a limp, but close. The cold pierces his skin deep, making him feel curiously vulnerable.

This recent one knew where to hit him. If he closes his eyes he can still see it; blue eyes looking deep into his own, so very near the same colour as hers. Her husband had gripped Watson's hand too tight at the end, thanking him, even though there was nothing he could have done.

He shakes off the memory. He's home now, pushes open the door to 221B and climbs the steps, feeling weary.

Holmes is sat within, gaze on the fire and drink in hand. He looks up as the doctor enters, his eyes scanning Watson swiftly.

Watson doesn't need to tell him anything. He knows Holmes can see it on his face. He crosses the room without removing his coat and sinks into his armchair, a sigh escaping him. Holmes watches him a moment longer before speaking.

"Greetings, doctor," he says, leaning forward and pressing his brandy glass into Watson's hand. He offers a brief smile and Watson feels the tension rolling out of his shoulders, his toleration to violence and disease and blood settling back in his bones; familiar ground.

Watson cannot summon a responding smile, but he raises the glass.

"Merry Christmas, Holmes."

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: This is closer to my 'modern' writing style than the one I would usually use for the canon (that being from Watson's first-person point of view), but I've been writing a lot of Sherlock drabbles to get back into the swing of things and find it hard to switch myself back to Victorian London, lol._


	2. Immortal

_A/N: My fondest thanks to you all for your kind reviews! It is so good to be back and has started off my month with good feelings. Although I can't seem to shake off my 'modern' writing style, I am delighted you are enjoying it._

 _Prompt 02: From BookRookie12 – Immortal. Hello again, my dear. I hope you like this one, in all its AU tendencies :-)_

* * *

 **Immortal**

* * *

It is becoming somewhat of a problem, these cemetery pursuits, setting the doctor's teeth on edge.

Watson is on the ground, knees cold and bruised, both hands pressed to Holmes's side. His fingers are stained and slipping, two long minutes counted under his breath and the bleeding will _not stop._

Holmes is eerily silent, one hand absently touching Watson's. He keeps saying, "All is well, Watson," as though it is, as though it always has been. As though it will be.

Watson laughs, a crazed broken sound, because all is not well. It really isn't.

The sky is a dull black, the moon full and baring down on them like its judgement day, a huge white chasm. Rain is falling in sheets and Watson doesn't care about it, pays it no heed, because it's not touching them anyway. He only needs to stop the bleeding. He thinks this is all he has been trained for; his whole knowledge of medicine and the unexpected gathered solely for this moment, army reflexes clicking into place. But then he thinks, _I can't do this._ Nothing has prepared him for this.

His hands slip again and he curses. Two weeks of tracking Jacobs, four victims and seemingly endless nights running across rain-soaked cobbles and grimy docks and dirt tracks, and this is what it has come down to: Holmes fatally wounded and calmer than a cargo ship on the ocean. It isn't right, Watson thinks. Nothing feels right.

Holmes is watching him, asks quietly, "What will you do?"

It is an odd question, but Watson will allow him it, considering the circumstances. His fingers stutter on Holmes's side. The blood is still flowing and he knows it isn't going to stop. He wants to claw at his own chest, dig deep and remove vital organs and muscle, beg the nearby stone angels with their upturned faces and cupped hands for a miracle; would give his own life to save that of his closest friend.

Holmes is waiting for an answer. His hand has moved and is now gripping Watson's shoulder.

"Watson?"

Watson's back bows, weighted. His eyes are wet, hands curling tight in the lapels of Holmes's coat, anchoring him.

He grounds out, "Anything," because he _would_ , because he hasn't thought this through, because his mind doesn't consider the possibilities of _anything_ , because he cannot bear the thought of Holmes dying, will never be prepared for it.

A strange thing happens then, something dark and intangible passing across Holmes's eyes.

The detective shifts, body pushing upwards despite Watson's shocked protests and efforts to keep him down, a hissed warning when Watson tries. His hand alights on Watson's neck, bloody fingers pressing deep behind his ear and into his hair, thumb settling upon the doctor's jaw. Holmes's lip curls swiftly, almost a sneer, a sudden flash of white and then Watson cannot see any more, because Holmes is on his knees, leaning in close, his other hand reaching around Watson's side to keep him still.

Watson realises too late. Fragmented thoughts warping into some kind of sense, the rain and moon and Holmes's strange disregard of pain. Then he realises it _doesn't_ make sense, none of it does. He has no idea what to do and wonders if he should push Holmes away, but his hands are still twisted in Holmes's coat and he isn't even trying.

Holmes lowers his head, breath ghosting over Watson's cheek, thumb seeking out the doctor's frantic pulse. He whispers, "All is well, Watson," and for the first time in his life Watson is scared of him.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: Ooo-err! I apologise if it came across a bit slash-like. That was not intentional, however I was definitely going for intimate. I hear vampires like to get up close and personal. ;-)_

 _I rewrote this so many times because it just wasn't flowing_ right _, but I couldn't shake the idea once I'd seen the prompt, lol, hence the late posting. Sorry!_


	3. Cultural Compromise

_A/N: Playing catch-up. If only I possessed Holmes's iron constitution. ;-)_

 _Prompt 03: From Zanganito – Sherlock confronts a bee thief._

* * *

 **Cultural Compromise**

* * *

The sun was warming the back of my neck, making my skin feel tight and just shy of uncomfortable, yet I did not dare lift my hand to rub away the tension.

We had been waiting near on an hour, Holmes and I, tucked into a secluded spot at the side of Holmes's cottage. I was hot and itchy beneath my collar. My limbs felt locked into place and my old injury a dull throb that was growing ever more incessant. The bright blaze of June light bouncing off the whitewashed stone made my eyes sting. Holmes was sat beside me, his eyes half-closed, and not for the first time that day I wondered if he had fallen asleep.

A bee thief, he had told me. It seemed rather farfetched, however I had found that characters residing in the countryside were possessed of rather flamboyant and unpredictable natures, so much so that when Holmes had asked for my assistance in apprehending the person responsible I had merely sighed in agreement.

Windows promptly closed and doors locked to give the illusion of absence, we were waiting, I somewhat impatiently, for the thief to appear.

"How do you know they'll turn up today?" I'd asked, when Holmes had first told me of his intentions.

"Patterns, Watson," he'd answered. "Every Sunday for three weeks now."

"Perhaps it is not a thief and your bees have flown the nests of their own accord?"

Holmes had given me a look of annoyance for my remark, borderline offended, and at that I had let the matter lie. I was not one to stand between a man and his bees.

Now, with my bones settling into a familiar ache and the sun branding my skin – more susceptible now that my hair was finer and my age greater – I'd had about enough. Thieving was one thing, but I fancied that a few bees missing here or there would not cause a great amount of stress, nor would Holmes's constitution suffer for it.

I turned to say as much to him, but as I did there came the slow but distinguished sound of a gate opening, a high-pitched creak accompanied by the scrape of wood. From my viewpoint, I saw a small figure approach one of the six hives that resided in perfect symmetry at the far end of the garden.

Holmes was immediately on his feet and striding with purpose across the grass. I stood, brushed the dust from my trousers and followed.

Despite the years behind him, Holmes descended with considerable speed. He reached the hives and hooked a hand in the culprit's collar, hauling him away. As I approached, I glimpsed a shock of hair the colour of dull amber and a glass jar clutched within tiny fingers. There was a squawk of surprise as the child twisted in Holmes's grip in an attempt to free himself.

Recognition lit upon Holmes's face and his tone was one of disapproval as he removed his hand. "Timothy Bennett. I cannot say I am surprised."

"A neighbour?" I asked.

"I am afraid so." Holmes sighed. From his expression, I gathered Timothy was a frequent visitor.

The boy straightened and looked up at us, face terribly young and dirt-smeared in the tell-tale way that bespoke of shortcuts through hedges and gardens, the very picturesque of country upbringing. The glass jar was drawn tight to his chest, as though fearful we would take it off him if a moment presented itself.

"I didn't. I meant no harm. I only take a few, see. At a time, see?" His words tumbled over one another as he spoke. "They don't mind. I let them go after. I keep them safe. I'm not. I ain't breaking no laws!"

"You are trespassing, young man," Holmes told him sternly.

"The gate isn't locked," Timothy protested, his tone full of soft indignation. His complexion turned red and he puffed his little chest out as he glared at Holmes. "It's never locked. And I didn't see no sign. You should get a sign." His paused, lips pressed together in thought. "Or a dog."

"A dog?" I said.

Timothy nodded eagerly. "Ol' man Higgins won't come near our garden on account of Bunty going for his … well, Bunty got 'im in the …" He stopped and shook his head, glancing around cautiously. His blush deepened as he lowered his gaze. "Mother says I'm not allowed to say what."

I could see Holmes was struggling to contain his amusement. "May I ask where you are taking my bees?"

"My mother. She likes to see them. She can't go far, see. She's not well. So I collect some to show her. I put holes in the lid so they're okay, and sometimes I add flowers to make them look pretty like." Timothy's shoulders slumped and his face took on a look of dejection. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean no harm."

Holmes and I exchanged glances.

"You know," said Holmes after a moment. "I think we can come to some sort of agreement which will suit the both of us."

Twenty minutes later saw Timothy waving to us from the gate, a small box fashioned into a sealed beehive tucked beneath one arm to take home to show his mother, with the promise to bring it back later that same day.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: I may end up rewriting bits of this. It didn't go quite as I planned._


	4. Over the Wall

_A/N: I am going on holiday tomorrow until Monday, so I may or may not get the opportunity to post whilst I'm away. I shall endeavor to catch up on my return if this is the case. I will, however, be stalking everyone else's work. ;-)_

 _Prompt 04: From Winter Winks 221 – Over the wall. Submission rating has gone to a T, to be on the safe side._

* * *

 **Over the Wall**

* * *

The sky outside Baker Street was smudged with clouds carrying the last dregs of sun, leaving dusty fingerprints of pink and grey as evening fell in.

Holmes was sat within, crossed-legged, elbow-deep in papers and clippings, his forehead pinched tight. Two dead street urchins and four nights without sleep made his movements jarred and haphazard, a butterfly with ripped wings trying to ride a storm. His case and syringe were lying somewhere to his left, but no amount of substance would erase the images as they pushed to the forefront of his mind. They were to stay in full clarity and colour; small grime-streaked faces beaten into something unrecognisable, bones broken and curled, eyes blown wide and unseeing. Holmes's face shifted into one of corrupted displeasure and he delved deeper, leaving paper leaves to flutter and fall in his wake. He knew his body would not maintain another night; gave himself six hours, at most.

He heard the faint click of the front door and Watson's footsteps climbing the stairs, unmistakable in his ascent, the familiar tap of the doctor's shoe on the carpet outside the living room door before he came in. Holmes felt the muscles in his back tense, his thoughts tumbling over one another like a stampede.

"Holmes, I—"

He did not know what Watson was going to say, did not need to look up to see the disapproval that would now be shaping Watson's face, all harsh lines and furrows. He had seen it too many times, Watson's expression forever etched in his memory like a tattoo beneath his skin. It didn't matter what Holmes did; could scratch until he bled, leave open wounds beneath his fingernails. Watson would still be there.

Seven quick steps and Watson was crouched in front of him, hands resting on his knees. The doctor had not disturbed any of the papers scattered around them, a testament to his consideration of Holmes's chaotic system. Holmes found himself briefly fascinated with that, followed the train of thought momentarily, down a mist-coated river and over a waterfall until Watson said his name, called him back.

There was a smear of black ink across the top of Watson's thumb; Holmes remembered he'd asked him to send a telegram. Holmes locked onto it, grounded himself. He made a rough noise to let Watson know he had heard, he was listening.

"My dear fellow," Watson said, voice soft, and Holmes's hands jerked as though his words were inflicting pain. The doctor's tone was understanding, years borne of resigned acceptance, and it annoyed Holmes more than he cared to admit. "Have you eaten?"

Holmes was already shaking his head before the question was complete. He lifted one of the newspapers – _Second Street Urchin Found Dead_ \- and scanned the article. The typeset swam in and out of focus and he cast it aside. "I cannot," he said to Watson, and left it at that, something hollow falling between them.

"Would you permit me to get you something to drink?"

Holmes declined again, a brief shake of his head that rattled his thoughts and set them loose. He tried to concentrate on one, but they dispersed like fallen change in a gutter. He bitterly wanted to blame Watson for his untimely intrusion, for his wayward thoughts. He wanted Watson to leave.

"You need to eat, Holmes," Watson said, concerned doctor rote slotting into place.

"I thank you, Watson, but no."

Watson sighed. Holmes mistook the sound for one of exasperation and immediately went on the defensive. They had been here before and Holmes was growing weary of it.

"Holmes," Watson began, but Holmes cut him off with a harsh swipe of his hand, a ruffle of paper wings startled into flight.

"I said no," he snapped, tone harsher than he intended.

Watson's fingers curled around his knees, the black smear stretching taut over skin, and Holmes thought, _Watson is angry._

"Holmes—"

"You must leave me to my work, doctor," Holmes insisted, falling back on formalities. He felt brittle, could see bits of himself scattered around the room, drifting like ash and settling on surfaces, touching everything but Watson. "As you can see, I am perfectly fine, and wish to conclude this dreadful business."

There was an uncomfortable pause in which neither of them spoke. Holmes's heart was beating too fast but there was no point in worrying about that, familiar symptoms like old battle wounds.

Then Watson said quietly, "I cannot recall you resorting to such measures when a case is coming to a close."

It was not said in judgement, pure simple fact, but Watson's words were tapering once again beneath Holmes's skin, pulling taut. Holmes flinched.

"Therein you are mistaken, doctor."

He heard Watson breath deep before speaking, could see the tic that was no doubt in Watson's jaw as he sucked air between gritted teeth.

"How so?" Watson asked. He sounded affronted, hurt.

Holmes glanced up, his eyes meeting Watson's for the first time since he had entered the room, a sharp sound like a thunderclap connecting them. Holmes tried to hold his gaze and found himself struggling. Watson's eyes blazed bright and pained, lips pressing together, hands knuckle-white on his trousers. A noise of frustration and anguish caught in Watson's throat which Holmes felt acutely. Watson reached out to touch him, a silent plea.

Holmes allowed the contact, but he couldn't see any more, lowered his gaze to spare them both further pain. He watched as Watson took his hand and pressed his fingers to the inside of Holmes's wrist, hard enough to bruise, another tattoo to corrupt his skin.

"I have reached a wall, Watson," Holmes confided. He stretched out his free hand, shaking fingers curling around the Morocco case, holding tight. "I intend to climb it."

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: Oh dear. I think someone poured me a cup of angst at the beginning of this challenge. :-p I need a prompt coated in pixie dust and rainbows that I am unable to corrupt, lol. x_


	5. Words and Warnings

_A/N: A thousand apologies for the delay! I have returned from my holiday and am now playing catch-up once again. :-) Let's go!_

 _Prompt 05: From Stutley Constable – Is that a literary reference? I have taken poetic license with the dates in this and, for a change, have sailed away from my island of angst into the waters of humour and crack-ishness._

* * *

 **Words and Warnings**

* * *

The winter of 1888 I remember as one of the busiest during my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes.

This was not in small part due to my impending matrimonial commitment and a number of publications released to the public of Holmes's cases, the latter of which took up a considerable amount of time, so much so that I am ashamed to say, coupled with wedding preparations, a few graced the pages of _The_ _Strand_ with those literacy errors that were wont to happen on occasion in the world of publishing.

These shortcomings did not go unnoticed by Holmes, who would waste no time in pointing out what were to him glaringly obvious mistakes, a role he took on with an almost sinister glee. He went as far to remark that my 'poorly timed nuptials' were justifiable cause for the slurs upon his occupation, a notion I was quick to dissuade before it created any bad feelings between us.

It was no secret my upcoming marriage was of a great displeasure to Holmes, and he was not reticent in making this fact known, however I had no desire to bring my poor Mary into speculated and misleading reasoning behind the misprints. It was true that some were due to haste brought on by deadlines on my part, yet a majority transpired after I had passed my written notes to the next party involved in publishing the work. It did not take Holmes's deductive skills to know where these errors were arising from.

Over the years, I had noticed a decline in my editor's sharp-eyed skills. Gone were the days of Mr. Pennington's eagle-like sight, to be replaced by vision that could hardly rival that of a garden mole. Whereas previously he would seize his proof-reading task with relish, this was now replaced with a grudging reluctance to check my drafts and chance it to fate. Had I been his physician, I would say that his eyesight was due only to get worse, evident in his failure to identify me whenever I paid a visit.

Indeed, the passage of time was not extending its hand of kindness to Mr. Pennington, and it was with regret that I had resigned myself to seek a replacement editor, before the inevitable happened and a mistake appeared in print that I would be powerless to explain or correct.

/-/-/

It was on a grim December morning that I was awoken from my slumber by a hand gently shaking my shoulder. I turned to find Holmes standing at my bedside, the light from the candle he held shrouding him in its weak glow.

"My apologies, Watson," said he. "There is a police constable downstairs. He wishes to see you."

"Me?"

"There is no need to echo, Watson. I spoke clearly."

I ignored this comment. "Does he have a medical emergency?"

"The only ailment to bestow our unexpected guest is that of a nervous disposition, which borders on the line of annoyance," said he, subjecting me to a weary gaze. "He has something for you, evident from his right hand constantly straying to his coat pocket, but will not entrust it to me for safekeeping, instead insisting that I rouse you from your bed. This alone suggests he has not come here of his own free will."

I was reluctant to part from the warmth in which I had encased myself and moved from the bed covers with a sigh. "Very well."

/-/-/

"I am sorry to disturb you at such an early hour, Doctor," said the young man, who had introduced himself as Constable Ridley. Red hair, clean-shaven and wide-eyed, it was hard to place his age, and he bore a youthful countenance that would no doubt stay with him later on in life.

He stood in the doorway of our living room, his mannerisms one of who wished to deliver his message and then disperse immediately. He would not be still, his feet rocking on the carpet, the concept of pacing almost too much of a burden. He kept darting glances over his shoulder as though he expected to be followed.

"Young man, you have near worn through that spot," said Holmes sharply, sat in his armchair with his dressing gown hung about his shoulders. "Either sit down or cease your incessant jittering."

Ridley's expression took on a look of embarrassment, although he made no effort to sit. "My apologies, sir."

"What is it you wish to see me about?" I enquired.

The constable produced a small parcel from his coat pocket and held it out to me.

"I have been given strict instructions to deliver this into your hands and your hands alone, Doctor, or on my head be it. I have been asked to express that this is for your eyes only, and that the contents are not to be shared." His gaze drifted from mine to look at Holmes, who was regarding him with something akin to amusement. "Except where needs may dictate," he added.

"Who is the sender?" I asked, taking the parcel from him.

"I do not know, Doctor. I was not privy to that information. Well, now that I have performed my duty, I shall bid you good day." He did not await a response, and with a tip of his hat Ridley departed from the room as fast as his feet would allow.

"What a vigorous fellow," Holmes commented after he heard the click of the front door.

I nodded and stepped in front of the window to examine the item closely. My name was scrawled on the front in black ink, slanted harshly in a way that gave the impression it had been written in anger, indicated by the closing slope of the _'n'_ which had ripped through the paper.

I opened the package and was not quick enough to stop the small cards that slipped from within. They fell upon the floor like paper rain, settling about my feet. I dare say my blood fair ran cold when I saw the embossed letter rising from them that declared the owner of the correspondence. I removed a piece of paper and unfolded it with caution.

Holmes had wandered over to me. I felt his breath on my cheek as he leaned over my shoulder to read the note, Ridley's words of warning dismissed instantly. I made no effort to stop him, as I knew it was a pointless endeavour.

It ran thus:

 _Doctor J. H. Watson,_

 _We have not met, sir, but please keep in mind that I know who you are and whom you associate with. So much so, that I hold you personally responsible for the slur upon my name due to your recent submission in The Strand._

 _If you wish to write about me, Doctor, you can do no worse than give me the common courtesy of ensuring my name is carried out in the appropriate spelling._ _I insist that you omit the 'F' from between the 'I' and 'A' forthwith, and correct this error immediately._

 _Great deeds are usually wrought at great risks, as the saying goes, and should you continue these publications, as I highly suspect will be the case where Mr. Holmes is concerned, I will ensure your submissions are monitored henceforth._

 _You will find enclosed one hundred business cards, which I entrust will act as a reminder for if or when my name may appear again in print._

 _Yours,_

 _Professor James Moriarty_

Suffice to say I was mortified. There are no words to express the deep unease that settled over my soul, however if I was expecting any consolation from my companion I was to be sorely disappointed.

Holmes was insensible with laughter, hands tightly clutching his side, and to this day maintains that it was the best Christmas present I had ever given him.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: Oh dear. Better get that fixed right away, Watson!_


	6. Snowdrift

_A/N: I'm posting prompt seven as I'm still working on prompt six, lol. This one I finished quicker and I do not wish to continue being behind, so I hope I'm forgiven for doing this. :-) I'll post my missing day as soon as it is done, but may continue with eight onwards if I finish these first._

 _Prompt 07: From Wordwielder – Snowdrift. I think I went a little off radar with this one …_

* * *

 **Snowdrift**

* * *

There are tiny frozen fingers poking out of the snow like miniature headstones reaching for the blackening sky, and it is this that imprints the most.

Lestrade rubs a weary hand across the back of his neck and then his face, pushes knuckles against his eye sockets to try to grind out the image.

It doesn't work.

He removes his hand. His breath is fanning out in white plumes and he is colder than he's ever felt before, his chest tight.

Two days into his role as an Inspector and already he feels he is in over his head, the coat of Sergeant abruptly torn from his shoulders and stamped upon. He bitterly wants to go back to familiar ground; at least he knew what he was doing.

He has left a Constable further down the tracks to empty his stomach behind a battle-beaten locomotive, can hear him retching between breaths. Weak disposition, he was told. Lestrade wonders if he should tell him to quit now and find an office job. Less hassle. Less hours. Less bloodshed.

He forces his gaze back to the snowdrift gathered against one of the train wheels, pushed up into a mound by the biting wind, the frozen face of Jeremy Timpson peeking through, his glazed eyes hauntingly locked on Lestrade's, his red hat askew to the left and stiffened with frost.

 _His mother knitted that_ , Lestrade thinks, because that is what the sobbing mother had managed to tell him when he'd asked for a description. She begged Lestrade to find him, and the irony is that he has not failed her. He grits his teeth hard enough to hurt and leans down.

"Do not touch, please."

Lestrade starts, straightens up to see a young, lean fellow stood several feet away, watching him. Not a Constable, he notices, judging by the lack of uniform and the way in which he regards the Inspector, almost curious. Lestrade feels his body tense.

"Who are you?" he demands, authority slipping into his voice by rote. "This is a police investigation. Remove yourself at once."

"I would be willing to do so," the stranger replies, taking a step closer. "However, I have been summoned."

"By who?"

"Mycroft Holmes."

Lestrade blinks. Connections click into place, and he says without question, "You are his brother."

"Yes." The grey eyes glint, a familiar hue, and Lestrade nods.

"I can see the resemblance."

"There is no need to insult me, Inspector."

Lestrade shakes his head but doesn't bother to explain himself. He doesn't know why this man has been sent for. He is suddenly angry by the appearance, feels insulted in turn by an apparent lack of faith in his abilities, and says defensively, "Your brother may have summoned you, Mr. Holmes, but I did not. I do not know what you hope to gain by this intrusion."

Sherlock Holmes's eyes harden, something dark passing across his face. He takes one long stride into Lestrade's personal space, his gaze piercing.

"There is a conspiracy going on here that my brother has connected to a government official," Holmes says, his voice low and sounding angry. "I cannot speak for you, _Inspector_ —"

The way he says the title makes the hairs on the back of Lestrade's neck rise, like Holmes knows something he doesn't. In a matter of seconds he feels peeled back and labelled. He wants to step back but knows how it will look, forces himself to stay put.

"—but Mycroft would very much like to see the person responsible hang. If you will allow me to help, we can prevent a similar death."

Jeremy Timpson is still looking at him, waiting for an answer. Lestrade feels the boy's dead gaze searing into the side of his face like a brand. The red hat is going to haunt him until his dying day, lodged in that snowdrift as permanently as it is lodged in Lestrade's mind. In the distance, he can hear Constable Burton heading back towards them.

Holmes hasn't stepped away. Lestrade thinks the detective can see every single one of his thoughts, his whole career there for Holmes to analyse and dissect, right down to this blood-curling guilt that will take him to Jeremy's mother tonight.

Lestrade sighs and nods firmly. He feels tired, older than his years. His hand trembles as he extends it, and he tells himself it's because he's cold.

"I look forward to working with you, Mr. Holmes."

It rings hollow and Holmes gives him the briefest of smiles. He shakes Lestrade's hand tightly and clasps the Inspector's frozen shoulder with the other. The eyes soften despite the steel creeping into his voice. "Likewise. Now, let us bring this murderer to justice."

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: I'm still finding drops of angst in my tea … oh dear! I may have to retitle my story 'Chronicles of Woes and Angst'. :-p_


	7. Voyage

_A/N: Thank you for your kind reviews, guys! I will respond to them as soon as possible and catch up on your posts too, including my own submissions (still working on prompt six!). Where is this month going?!_

 _Prompt 08: From Domina Temporis – Someone goes on a long sea voyage. I took some teeny liberties with this. :-)_

* * *

" _I was despatched accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined."_

 _John H. Watson – A Study in Scarlet_

* * *

 **Voyage**

* * *

He was dreaming of Afghanistan, of deep trenches out of which climbed hounds made of sand, when a sharp sound like a riffle crack abruptly penetrated the scene and set the hounds retreating.

Watson awakened fast, his heart pounding, ice skirting across his skin. It took him too long to realise where he was, pale moonlight pushing through the circle of glass above his head.

Nine days at sea and his nerves were shot to hell, footsteps aboard the _HMS Orontes_ sounding like gunfire as men stomped across the deck, sudden shouts reminiscent of the wounded he had left behind and their cries tugging at Watson's chest like finely woven thread. He felt as delicate as china, cracked and pieces of him missing, lying buried in the Afghan dirt.

He ran a hand across his damp forehead and tentatively touched his shoulder, fingers gently probing the wound there until he felt sick. He'd left some of his shoulder behind too, thought bizarrely that he wouldn't be able to get it back. He hadn't contemplated that he may not have come back at all.

Watson turned over onto his side, the part of him that hadn't been broken, and closed his eyes, trying to remember why he had wanted to study medicine in the first place.

/-/-/-/

Thirteen days at sea and Watson was pacing, four swift steps from the door of his cabin to the porthole and back again. His hands kept clutching and tugging at his hair. He was thinking about dirt and dust and blood, couldn't get it off him. His shoulder was throbbing, a centred point of pain, increasing significantly whenever he raised his arms.

He didn't want to be here, wanted to walk out of the tiny cabin and onto the deck, step overboard and trek across the water to England because he didn't feel the ship was moving fast enough. He could see the vast expanse of ocean outside the porthole, as thick and deep as liquid ink. The moon had vanished some time ago; he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen it.

He wondered whereabouts he was, and then realised it didn't matter too much. He felt as brittle as a shipwreck, splintered and abandoned.

/-/-/-/

Seventeen days at sea and the ocean had turned on him.

A storm had gathered from the East and for the past two days the _Orontes_ had sailed valiantly through, steel groaning and wood cracking beneath the assault. Gone were the calm sways of the ship to be replaced by harsh, untimely jerks.

Watson had not left his cabin; the pounding footsteps and yells too much for his frayed mind. He was thinking of different cries to the barking orders he could hear penetrating the door, cries of anguish and fright. If he concentrated he could hear the singular voice of his orderly yelling at him to get up, a sudden weight on his back.

They were coming for him, Watson thought, guns cocked and waiting to place a bullet directly through his heart, where it was supposed to go the first time. He fisted his hand in the sheet on his bunk, white-knuckles pushing against skin, muscles quivering. He recited medical abbreviations and prayed that whatever happened would happen quickly.

/-/-/-/

He was dreaming of Bartholomew's, the white-washed corridors and gleaming floors blinding in their intensity. He was talking to one of the students about nothing in particular. It couldn't have been important anyway; things didn't really matter here.

The student's hair was matted on one side and he was leaning heavily on crutches. His right leg was cut at the thigh with nothing beneath, flesh torn, copious amounts of blood pooling onto the floor, and Watson thought brokenly he should do something about that, but they were both pretending not to notice. Watson was sure he knew the lad's name, but he couldn't place it.

The lad was smiling at him. He was laughing at something Watson had said, but Watson couldn't remember it. The blood was splashing onto Watson's shoes and he wanted to step back, but he thought it would be rude.

The lad moved closer, a small hop, and asked, "What did you leave behind, Doctor Watson?" and suddenly Watson knew who he was, who he had been. Young Thomas Heath, who had laid on the bed opposite him in Peshawar, his screams ripping through Watson's soul as he cried out in agony. That cramped room with rust-coloured sheets. Stretchers that had carried the wounded with missing limbs and broken spirits, howling like the undead, one breath away from joining them.

Watson had left them all behind. He had survived.

Watson started, took a step back. The scent of blood suddenly filled his nostrils. Heath grinned at him, but it was crooked, the skin at his jaw peeling away. He lifted one of his crutches and used it to tap Watson's shoulder.

"What did _you_ leave behind, Doctor Watson?" he asked again, and Watson heard a noise like cloth ripping, looked down to see his arm tearing at the elbow, tendons and muscle and bone showing through.

He woke shouting the boy's name, turned abruptly on the bunk to empty his stomach. His hand shook as he checked his arm, the bend in his elbow, shaking fingers curling around his thin wrist.

Twenty-six days at sea and he did not think the nightmares were going to stop, did not think his corrupted mind could cope with any more.

/-/-/-/

One day shy of a month since they had set sail, Watson alighted at Portsmouth, and within a week he was back in London, the city beckoning him like a beast of brick and smog, tendrils encasing and taking hold.

It was raining heavily and the sky was a dull grey. Watson hailed a cab and headed to the Strand, clutching a small case that contained most of his belongings and pension, nothing else to his name but memories he carried like a tattered coat.

As he stepped from the hansom, he was overwhelmed by how much he missed the vastness of the sea, the enclosed walls of the troopship. He could feel himself tensing beneath the crush of so many bodies. His mind stuttered to an abrupt halt as he contemplated what lay ahead. He wondered how long it would take for the broken pieces of himself to come back, how long it would be before the pain that had lodged behind his ribs faded. He wondered if he should retreat to some seaside idyllic and live the rest of his life in solitude, to be plagued upon by nightmares as his mind saw fit.

He was suddenly jerked from his thoughts when he bumped shoulders with a grime-coated worker, felt the muscle in his own shoulder twinge fiercely as he stumbled. A hand reached out to steady him and Watson tore his arm away fast, caused himself further pain.

He mumbled an apology and received a glinted, annoyed look in return, which quickly softened when he was given a cursory glance by a pair of sharp, grey eyes.

For a moment neither man moved, the rain falling between them. Watson wondered what the fellow had seen, mistook it for something akin to pity and began to lower his gaze.

"Doctor," the man said. He smiled and tipped his cap in farewell, and then he was gone before Watson could ask how he knew that.

/-/-/-/

No dreams haunted John Watson that night.

The doctor slept fully for the first time since the _HMS Orontes_ had delivered him to English soil, pain dulled and thoughts gently scattered across an ebbing tide, to await a new voyage amidst the dawning sun.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: There's angst in the kettle, I swear! :-p Did you guys know I have a particular weakness for writing AUs/drabbles in which characters meet for the first time? I can't help it. There are too many what-if potentials._


	8. Captured

_A/N: Still trying to play catch-up. Oh dear! This week has been hectic, but hopefully the weekend will provide some reprieve to write and read more. :-) I am combining two prompts for this one. They seemed to fit nicely together._

 _Prompt 09: From BookRookie12 – On fire. Prompt 10: From Sirensbane – Captured._

 _This can be read as a standalone and/or a continuation of chapter six._

* * *

 **Captured**

* * *

Lestrade was not altogether sure that meeting Sherlock Holmes had been a good idea.

Two months in the man's presence and he had been verbally abused, chased, attacked, shot at and, now, captured; a majority of which came with the job but being held captive was new. In all his years at Scotland Yard he had never been snatched so blatantly off the streets, a feat he wanted to berate Holmes for marking.

The Inspector prided himself that he knew London like the back of his hand, could tell what street or alleyway he was standing in at a glance, but he had no clue whatsoever as to where he was, old beams bowing above him like heavy industrial bunting, wood damp and smelling of decay. The one tiny window at the end of the room was coated in grime and jutting inwards, as though the glass was trying to join him by sheer will alone. At a guess, he reckoned he was in the roof of a house or an office building somewhere. In the distance, he fancied he could hear the clang of a bell, a familiar sound that he couldn't quite place. Perhaps he wasn't in the city at all.

There was a large hole in the floorboards near the window that Lestrade was staring at, wondering if he could fit through if he could loosen his bonds. To the far right a door was tucked away, hiding in the shadows, but it had been offensively locked. He had been striped to his shirtsleeves and bound to the chair in which he was seated, arms pulled taut behind him, muscles trembling with pain. His right leg was tingling, bleeding profusely from the wound on his thigh where a knife had sliced through.

He wanted to blame Holmes for his predicament, but knew he was doing the man a disservice if he did. They had gotten further into the Ruthford case than anyone else, and for the past three weeks had been chasing their man down dark lanes, through seedy pubs and between every secret place the city had to offer. Each time they got a little bit closer. Lestrade couldn't remember when he'd last slept more than five hours, but it had been worth it, worth every night young Jeremy Timpson's face had swam into view to disturb what little dreams he'd had.

There came the soft, dull thuds of footsteps, a key scraping inside a lock. The door opened and a man stepped into the room. He seemed almost too large for the space, back curved slightly, arms drooped at his sides like two fleshy anchors. He walked in front of Lestrade, a slight grin on his heavily-whiskered face.

"Well," he said in a low, gruff voice.

"Well," Lestrade intoned.

"I hear you've been asking about me, Inspector."

"No more than most, Mr Ruthford," Lestrade replied calmly.

The man frowned and his eyes glittered angrily. "How did you know that?"

"You'll find that everyone knows your name now."

He received a backhanded slap across the face for the comment, felt the sting long after Ruthford pulled back. A look of annoyance passed over Ruthford's face before it was cleaned away.

"Names can be changed," he sneered. He crouched low on his heels, elbows resting on his knees. "In fact, I've been thinking I might retire from the city."

Retire, not stop, Lestrade thought angrily. Ruthford had the crazed look of a man who had killed three children without any reason - just _because_ \- and was more than prepared to add a Detective Inspector to the quota. If Lestrade had his gun he knew he would have shot him on the spot, law-abiding rules be damned.

"You'll be followed," Lestrade told him.

Ruthford's lip curled. "That I do not doubt, but not by you."

Lestrade felt an icy hand close around his insides, kept his face neutral. "Probably not."

"Is that leg causing you trouble, Inspector?" Ruthford asked, his eyes glinting as Lestrade shifted in his seat.

Lestrade said nothing.

"I must apologise for my men's rough handling," Ruthford continued. "But you see, had you not been so ... uncooperative, you might have avoided the slight injury."

"Most unfortunate," Lestrade grumbled. His leg was starting to hurt intensely, a slow burn coiling around the flesh. He did his best not to let it show, didn't want this lunatic to know how much pain he was in.

There was a haunted pause, and then Ruthford asked, "Have you got children, Inspector?"

He wasn't expecting the question and couldn't stop the darted look of angered surprise that crossed his face.

"Ah, so you have."

Lestrade felt a snarl misshaping his mouth, the icy grip melting into boiling rage. "Now listen–"

Ruthford smacked him again, sent him reeling. One hand came out to clutch the back of the chair, tilting it close, Lestrade's foot catching on the floorboards and lancing his leg with hot-pointed agony. Ruthford leaned towards him, smiling with broken teeth, and Lestrade would have given worlds to be able to put his hands on him, snap the neck that held the leering face.

"Be nice, Inspector. I have been kind enough to let you live up to now." He released the chair and stood back slowly. "But now I must leave you. My train departs in half an hour and I hear your friend is looking for you."

It occurred to Lestrade that Ruthford was talking about Holmes, but Holmes did not know where he was; they had not spoken in nigh on thirty hours. Lestrade had not told him of his intentions, and he was thinking now that it hadn't been the wisest of choices.

The grin on Ruthford's face informed Lestrade that he already knew this, his fears confirmed when Ruthford pulled out a box of matches from his coat pocket.

"I'll not light these here, out of respect for your temerity these past few weeks," he said. "There is a nice substance outside which I think I'll part ways with. Until we meet again, Inspector."

"I look forward to it," Lestrade replied in a steely tone, his eyes narrowing, knowing full well that if anything happened to him, Holmes would at least ensure Ruthford's demise. Lestrade would happily greet him on the other side.

A brief look of unease settled about Ruthford's face, so quick that if Lestrade had blinked he would have missed it. It gave Lestrade a twisted satisfaction to see, comforted him in the smallest way.

The sneer slotted back into place and Ruthford left without comment. The door was shut, and Lestrade heard the key turn with a dull click, felt it like a bolt sliding home against his ribs.

/-/-/-/

Looking back, Lestrade knew he had remained in that room five, ten minutes at most, but at the time it had felt much longer.

His leg was starting to concern him, the pain shifting into an alarming numbness, only to return whenever he tried to move it. He had lost more blood than he was willing to admit, wondered fleetingly if the numbness was due to the shock settling deep in his bones. His head was pounding like a marching parade of drums with no particular beat.

He could hear Ruthford descending the stairs, two at a time, then the softer-sounding footfall as he descended another set. He heard the slam of a front door and waited, his breath sounding too loud and fast in the dark room.

He willed his heartbeat to slow, but even that was betraying him, rapid thuds in his ears as he tried to listen, his brain supplying him with snippets of information. The building he was in must have been old, because he could hear creaks and scrapes far below.

There was a soft hiss, a sudden spell of bone-chilling silence, and then something exploded.

The building groaned loudly, glass shattered and the floor shook beneath him. Lestrade thought for a horrifying moment he was going to fall through, and then the structure coughed and settled. Amidst it all, he fancied he heard voices, a harsh cry, but he had other things to worry about.

He knew immediately he wasn't safe, glimpsed flashes of light outside the broken window, tendrils of orange and grey licking across the frame, creeping higher, sneaking inside the room like a fiery serpent, spreading far too fast. The flames greedily ate the decaying floorboards and a thick, curling smoke began to fill the air, wispy hands reaching out to touch Lestrade's face and trickle into his throat. He struggled against his bonds, skin scratching raw, the chair wobbling furiously with his efforts. A curl of nausea settled in his stomach as he moved, the pain too much.

He realised hopelessly he was going to die here, wondered who would receive the unfortunate task of telling his wife. He hoped it wasn't Hopkins; he'd only been sixteen days on the job. Perhaps it would be Gregson; despite his faults the man knew how to handle sensitive situations. Or maybe Holmes would do the deed; tell his wife and child that Lestrade had died chasing a whim, an idiotic whim that led him into the arms of a psychotic serial killer.

He was working his way down a mental list of acquaintances, his chest pained by smoke inhalation, when there came the unmistakable crack of kicked-in wood and the door flew open and off. Through the smoke, Lestrade heard hurried footsteps, the snap and scrape of a penknife and then his arms were free, rope falling to the floor like coarse ribbons.

Holmes appeared in front of him, looking wholly made of coal, grey eyes wide and urgent as they ran over him, settling briefly on his leg.

"Can you stand?"

He could barely crawl, let alone stand, but desperation does inhuman things to a man, and Lestrade's will to live compelled him to his feet. Holmes was already pulling Lestrade's arm across his shoulders so he didn't think he would have been given the decision if he had replied in the negative. The fire was a roaring demon in his ears, howling in rage as Holmes led him to the burning doorway and down the worryingly-brittle stairs.

He didn't remember much after that apart from a heavy hand slung about his waist and a ripping pain in his leg, so intense he suspected he passed out.

When he came to Holmes was slapping his face, hard enough to hurt. He lifted a hand to grip the detective's wrist, grumbled at him between coughs to stop.

"I thought you were dead," Holmes breathed.

"Am I not?" Surely living wasn't supposed to hurt this much. His leg felt detached, the entire limb made of pain. He was lying in the snow, cold seeping into his back. The building behind Holmes was completely ablaze, flames reaching star-wards. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious. Black, dirty snow was falling between them, stark against their white surroundings. He wasn't sure how Holmes had found him, how he had managed to get them both out.

Holmes's face was caked in grime and something that Lestrade thought looked like relief, frown lines smoothing as he clutched Lestrade's shoulder. His clothes were torn and smelt like ash and smoke. The side of his face was darkly coloured and bespoke of bruising to follow.

"You look bloody awful," Lestrade told him.

He received a wry smile in return. "Kind of you to say so, Inspector."

"Where is Ruthford?"

Holmes's eyes shadowed, his lips tightening. He said nothing.

Duty compelled Lestrade to ask, but Holmes interrupted him with a small shake of his head.

"He is within. I could not get to you both. Given the choice again, my actions would be the same. I shall not lose sleep over it."

He suspected there was more to what Holmes was telling him, Ruthford most likely dead inside of the building and certainly not by natural causes, but Lestrade was too overcome with relief, his chest tight, that he didn't so much care. Jeremy Timpson's mother would be pleased, he thought, some small comfort that her child's killer was dead, a warped kind of closure. Lestrade did not think that the boy would haunt his dreams as much now; if he did perhaps he would be whole and alive, not frozen, wearing his knitted red hat with pride.

Holmes was watching him, an unreadable expression slipping into place. His hand was still against Lestrade's shoulder, fingers pressing tight, a slight tremble running beneath. It had been close, Lestrade could tell.

Lestrade swallowed, said with immeasurable sincerity, "I am in your debt, Mr Holmes." He felt drained, disintegrating like the blazing building, pieces of him falling away with exhaustion. In the distance, he could hear the unmistakable trill of a fire engine approaching.

Holmes smiled, moved away to sit on the cold ground. "Not at all, my dear fellow."

He had a new founded respect for Holmes that night. They were not the closest of friends after that first case, but the Inspector would have entrusted his life a thousand times over in Holmes's hands, knowing beyond belief that Holmes would not fail him.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: I'm growing rather fond of Lestrade … can you tell? :-)_


	9. Buried Alive

_A/N: My compliments of the season to you all. It's Christmas Eve tomorrow! :-) Please forgive me if my prompts do not appear in order; I've written them all down and am penning my responses as and when they come to me, to ensure I can catch up as fast as my chaotic brain will allow._

 _Prompt 12: From Madam'zelleG – Buried alive._

* * *

 **Buried Alive**

* * *

The body was that of a twenty-three-year-old woman, and Lestrade looked down at her with something approaching professional detachment, his hat low on his brow as he titled his head in consideration.

"Doctor Watson is on his way, Inspector," Constable Burton said, stood at Lestrade's side. At least he wasn't throwing up, Lestrade thought, years at Scotland Yard carving him into a man and not the boy that had started just before Lestrade had made Inspector.

Lestrade made a noncommittal noise. Rain fell from the brim of his hat to the broken concrete below, pattering on blood and mud that was so wet it looked like black clay.

The moon was pitched high in the sky, only half peeking out behind a heavy clouded curtain to light the body with a dusky pale hue. The woman's left hand was bent slightly, fingers pointing at them in accusation. The other hand was clawed into a fist. Dirt was gathered around her and pieces of concrete haphazardly placed on top, a makeshift grave, only the upper part of her body free where the policemen had dug her out.

A deep unease settled in Lestrade's stomach and he swallowed hard.

"Do we know her name?" Lestrade asked.

"Not yet," said Burton.

"Right."

"Are you alright, sir?" The briefest of smiles touched Burton's face. "Not going to be ill, are you?"

"Watch your tone, lad," Lestrade replied, but there was no malice in it. He looked into Burton's face, the youthfulness smoothed long ago, and felt incredibly sad that Burton would not get the opportunity to work with Sherlock Holmes again.

/-/-/-/

Doctor Watson pushed the hat off his head and placed it on the coat stand, ran wet fingers through his hair. He looked at Lestrade with a pinched expression, harsh lines on his brow. They had not seen each other since the funeral of Watson's wife, and Lestrade thought the Doctor was looking extremely tired.

"I'll know more when I've carried out a full examination tomorrow," Watson said, "but she was alive when she was put in there, that I can tell you for certain."

"I see," Lestrade said. The rain had soaked down the back of his neck and he felt miserable, more so at Watson's words.

They were in the mortuary, cold grey slabs beneath their feet marked with muddy footprints, rainwater and speckles of blood. Most of the staff had left for the day, leaving Lestrade and Watson alone. Burton was in the corridor, pacing, green-tinged in the face because he wasn't expecting the body to be pulled out without a foot, the limb brutally cut at the ankle.

"She would not have been alive long due to the blood loss," Watson told him.

"I see," Lestrade murmured again. It was two days before Christmas and he'd had enough death to last him this season and many more to come.

"Are you alright, Lestrade?"

"Yes, Doctor." Lestrade looked at him, forced a brief smile, and returned, "Are you?" Then he flinched because it was a stupid question to ask, the Doctor's wife only laid to rest five weeks ago. Lestrade could remember the funeral as clear as any day; the sky a powdered blue and birdsong inappropriately filling the air for such a sad event. He remembered the look Watson had held, a look that was still there now.

Immense sadness passed across Watson's face, a shimmer of emotion, and then it was gone. Watson nodded in reply, but Lestrade knew he'd already done his damage, finely honed needles of guilt digging into his skin.

"That was insensitive of me, Doctor. My apologies."

Watson lifted a hand, waved Lestrade's apology away. "There is no harm in asking after a friend's wellbeing. I hold you in no ill respect, Lestrade."

"But still ..." Lestrade sighed, pushed a hand through his hair. "No. Never mind. Thank you, Doctor Watson. It's–" He glanced back to woman lying on the table, as cold as the surface on which she rested. Another name to identify. Most likely another family to tell, another Christmas to ruin. "It's been a trying night."

Watson gave him a look of understanding, said, "I guess we both have our burdens to bear," and Lestrade thought that his burdens were nothing of those compared to the Doctor's. He saw death, but shaped in the form of strangers, not one body known or dear to him despite how acutely he felt the pain, how many relatives he parted bad news upon. He had not lost his best friend and wife within the space of two years.

He was suddenly uncomfortable, found he could not respond to the Doctor's words. He wanted to leave this place, take the Doctor with him, somewhere warm and quiet where they might share a drink, reminisce in light and not this dark, cold place.

Watson held out his hand, and Lestrade grasped it in farewell, his fingers curling tight around the Doctor's. He brought his free hand up to clasp Watson's upper arm, told him with conviction, "Take care of yourself, Doctor."

Watson left, and Lestrade followed sometime later, wandered down the corridor to find Burton, trying not to think how broken Watson had looked as they had parted ways. He squared his shoulders, wondered how he was going to explain to the victim's family, if she had one, that she had been buried alive.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: The angst train is back. Feel free to hop aboard!_


	10. Twinkle

_A/N: Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas! I am still playing catch-up, so my apologies once again if these do not appear in order, but each prompt hits me in different, unexpected ways._

 _Prompt 20: From Wordwielder – Twinkle. I think I stretched and bent this quite a bit. :-) After my angst-driven journey please accept this humble bit of humour and fluff, at poor Watson's expense._

* * *

 **Twinkle**

* * *

They are at the docks, feet hitting rain-splattered pavements and disturbing puddles, the ocean shushing them from the right and buildings leaning across in an imposing manner from the left. The moon is a brilliant white, low and empowering, watching them keenly. The air is cool and the smell of water and metal rises to meet them.

The villain is in front of Holmes and Holmes is in front of Watson, coat tails swishing like black flags, a stark warning. Watson is concentrating on them, his chest hitching with every breath. He doesn't think his leg will tolerate this chase much longer. They have been tracking Hooper for two weeks, several nights of cultivated observation leading to this very moment. Watson has not slept for thirty-six hours and Holmes more than that.

The pain in his leg becomes too much. Watson realises he is going to have to stop and let Holmes finish this one, a tendril of agitation settling under his skin at the thought of leaving the detective alone to the task.

He doesn't have to worry about it, however, the decision made for him in the form of a shadowy figure that springs from the alleyway up ahead. He has a bar in one hand and lifts it to strike as Holmes draws near.

Watson does not think, shouts out in warning. He pushes his leg beyond its limit, a short burst of energy, and tackles the fiend to the ground, flesh and muscle thudding painfully together. The Doctor's head hits the pavement with a sickening thud and he thinks his brain rattles within. He passes out immediately, sees blackness for five minutes, twenty minutes, maybe more, and hears someone calling his name.

He opens his eyes to see Holmes knelt beside him. The detective has one cold hand against Watson's neck, coolness seeping into his skin, and Watson tries his hardest to concentrate on this. Fleetingly, the Doctor's mind splinters and absconds, and he has no idea what he is – or was – doing.

"Watson." Holmes's voice sounds mildly relieved. "Are you hurt?"

Watson nods, because it is pointless lying to Holmes; he is too intelligent for that.

Holmes helps him sit up, one hand keeping him steady. He tugs his handkerchief free from his coat pocket and presses it to a spot at the side of Watson's head. Pain blooms instantaneously and Watson grits his teeth, tries to pull away. Nausea curdles in his stomach, stems from the place where Holmes is touching him. He wants to tell Holmes to leave it alone and find his scattered thoughts instead.

"Easy, Watson," Holmes says, tugging him back. He clearly wishes to inflict discomfort on the poor Doctor and for a moment Watson dislikes him intensely.

Watson looks at his friend, sees double for a moment. A swift flicker of light passes over Holmes, catches on his face. Watson gasps and then frowns at him hard, tries to focus and wait for it to return.

Holmes is watching him, asks, "Are you alright?"

"You have a, a ..." Watson waves a hand, as though he can conjure the word by movement alone. The moon is shining brightly now, closing in on them, and suddenly he's got it. "A twinkle."

"A twinkle?" Holmes looks worried, moonlight glinting in his eyes. Watson clicks his fingers.

"Yes. There! A twinkle."

"I don't ..." Holmes looks confused for a moment, and then a flash of amusement comes to his gaze.

Watson gestures again. "A twinkle, Holmes. I saw it."

"Indeed." Holmes is smiling at him now, and Watson thinks it isn't that funny. He's acquired quite a serious head injury; there are pieces of him missing, for goodness sake. "My dear fellow," Holmes tells him with kindly affection. "I do believe you have done yourself a misfortune."

"Yes I have." Watson nods, then instantly decides that it is in poor taste, his brain loose and delicate. There are bits detaching, hanging limp somewhere in the recesses of his mind, threads of thought he cannot grasp. He takes in his surroundings, sees the form of their assailant lying face-down some metres away. He frowns when he realises they are missing someone. "Where did Hooper go?"

"He has gone to ground, Watson. We shall have to fight another day. For now, we need to get you medical assistance. Can you stand?" Holmes has already placed a hand beneath Watson's elbow, slowly brings him to his feet.

Watson staggers, his hand gripping Holmes's coat. He feels like a leaf clinging to a branch, the wind ripping through him, Holmes the only stable entity within reach. "I don't need medical assistance," he says. Then he adds, rather unnecessarily, "I'm a doctor."

"Physician, heal thyself," Holmes tells him. He is still smiling. "Are you able to walk?"

Watson replies in the affirmative, takes a bold step forwards and pitches head-first into the gutter.

He doesn't remember hitting the ground, Holmes evidently stopping his descent, nor does he remember the journey back to Baker Street. He does, however, remember the moon, an enormous circle of white, and Holmes's eyes, the grey smoothed like a calming sea, a permanent glint within that Watson witnesses throughout the night and well into the hours of the morning. He remembers Holmes talking to him about nothing in particular, keeping him awake until it was deemed safe he could sleep.

Fifteen hours later, head tender and greeting him with a mild concussion, he asks Holmes to tell him what he said, if anything, but Holmes is annoyingly reticent, tells Watson nothing.

Watson suspects that whatever he did or said was highly embarrassing and isn't sure if he wants to know, not when Holmes's eyes twinkle at him like that.

* * *

 **End**


	11. Damnably Cold

_A/N: Happy Boxing Day, guys! Hope you are all having a wonderful festive season. Again, please forgive my now-random order of prompts._

 _Prompt 22: From Stutley Constable – Damnably cold. Read_ _into this what you will, as my own mind took the prompt and escaped with it to unchartered waters, sunk it deep beyond deciphering. I rather enjoy exploring the wonderful conundrum that is Holmes and Watson's relationship, and I know how much you guys love the angsty stuff. ;-)_

* * *

' _Love like ours can never die!' – Rudyard Kipling_

* * *

 **Damnably Cold**

* * *

Watson looks at the headstone with growing weariness, hands deep inside his coat pockets, fingernails digging into the soft skin of his palms. The sun is setting to the west and dim shafts of light land at his feet, golden spots of clarity.

He sighs, glances at the flowers he has placed atop, his mind far away from this moment. He isn't sure whether to stay or go. There is no body beneath, and he wonders if there would be any closure if he had seen one.

He takes the silver cigarette case from his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly.

 _It is damnably cold_ , he thinks.

/-/-/-/

Eighteen months later, Watson is standing in front of another grave, freshly covered and his wife within like a hushed secret, laid to rest one hour previous. Snow is falling, people are walking through the cemetery, and he is thinking with immense sadness that everything continues; that he has to carry on.

He wonders if he should say something, a final declaration, but his mind conjures nothing, blank spaces leaving room for other irrelevant thoughts. There is a hollow feeling inside Watson's chest, an ache taking refuge behind his ribs. He shifts uncomfortably and wonders if he is supposed to feel this way.

 _She must be damnably cold_ , he thinks, and then he screws his eyes shut and presses the heel of his palm to his socket, because he isn't supposed to think like that.

/-/-/-/

He is standing on an island made of memories, items shouldering for space around him and pushed closer by a tide of black ink, and Watson knows without confirmation that he is dreaming.

There are things here from his childhood, things he has not seen for years: a chipped teacup, a hair piece of his mother's, a pen his father used to write with, a stone his brother found somewhere by a stream and declared it lucky, carried it around like the rarest jewel. Papers carrying his own writings are piled high up to his knees, burying him in words.

Loose sheets are picked and carried away by a gentle breeze, one passing before his eyes in slow precision, a line standing out as though etched into his skin - _whom I shall ever regard as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known_.

Watson's chest hurts and he wants to leave. He doesn't want to stay here.

He turns to go, tries to take a path of his own making, and finds his way barred.

His wife is stood in front of him, wearing the dark green dress in which she was buried, a kindly smile on her face. There are smudges of dirt on her skin and clothes, the dress ripped in places, and Watson wonders bizarrely how she got herself out. He thinks this is a perfect time to say something, but again no words come, and her expression turns into one of displeasure.

"You wrote all these words, John dear, yet you cannot think of anything to say to me?" she says, sounding hurt. "Why is that?"

Watson shakes his head helplessly, thinks, _my wife. She's my wife._ Surely he can say something to the woman he pledged his life to?

"Why is that?" Mary asks again, her tone soft yet suddenly cruel, a sneer making her lip curl. Words begin to appear across her brow, familiar handwriting that Watson recognises as his own, scuttering down her cheeks like tiny dark spiders, a plague of recollections. He watches in detached horror as they mark her pale neck and descend to the curve of her shoulders. Several words boldly travel across her throat and make Watson's heart stutter. They start to smudge and weep, black ink turning to blood on Mary's skin, cutting deep until he is looking at freshly open wounds.

"Why is that, John?"

Watson wakes with effort, a cry torn out of him, tears himself away like a page from a book. He tells his frantic heart to slow, breathes deep until familiar smells return.

He is lying on the sofa in his house, his jacket off and draped across him. He has some old case notes clutched tightly in one hand, was reminiscing before Morpheus had taken claim.

The fire has long gone out and he is damnably cold. He stands to light another, his late wife's presence shrouding him in a blanket of remorse. He feels broken, too many emotions fighting for space beneath his skin, too many words taking flight.

He wonders hopelessly when he might feel warmth again.

/-/-/-/

They are at a decrepit station somewhere in the north-west of England, disused trains surrounding them like great chunks of fallen armour, metal soldiers with no steam left to breathe. It is snowing heavily, huge flecks of white sinking to the earth, sound muffled beneath the onslaught.

Watson has taken a hit to his upper arm, bullet grazing the same limb that brought him home to England so many years ago. He is sat on the wet ground with a shaking hand against the wound, blood throbbing around it.

Holmes is beside him, one hand resting atop Watson's to keep it still, a calculated expression on his face as he looks away. He is listening out for danger despite felling Watson's assailant with a swift blow of his cane, the man lying in the snow some feet away.

There is a familiar ache growing behind Watson's ribs, icy fingers gripping each one in turn. A small part of him wants to pick up a pen and write about it, attempt some form of identification, but he has left his notebook at an inn seven miles away. He sighs in frustration.

Holmes turns to him then, asks if he is okay.

 _Holmes's hand is damnably cold_ , Watson thinks, and it is the best thing he has ever known. He does not need ink to preserve this, will settle for flesh and blood.

Holmes looks at him knowingly, says nothing, fingers curling tight over Watson's.

* * *

 **End**


	12. A Touch of Frost

_A/N: Onwards and upwards, my fellow writing friends. :-)_

 _Prompt 23: From KnightFury – "Jack Frost is after our fingers and toes!"_

* * *

 **A Touch of Frost**

* * *

Lestrade is Christmas shopping, arms full of parcels, people pushing and pressing around him like a fleshy plague, when a Constable materialises by his side, calls his name and makes him drop his presents, startles him from the chaos.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lestrade asks, annoyed, sinking to his knees in the cold snow to gather his fallen items.

The Constable mutters his apologies, stoops to help him. "You have been requested, sir."

"I'm a little busy, Constable."

"I appreciate that, sir," the Constable says. "But it is of utmost importance."

Lestrade sighs and stands, the Constable mirroring his movements and holding half of Lestrade's load. "Very well. Fill me in."

The man goes to speak when two kids jostle between them, faces pink and grinning. Lestrade starts, sidesteps them cleanly.

"Jack Frost is after your fingers and toes!" one of them cries, arms outstretched to a girl with flowers tucked neatly into her hair. She squeals in delight, allows herself to be chased and tormented. They disappear into the crowd and Lestrade shakes his head, turns back to the Constable.

The Constable watches the children go and then lifts his gaze to the Inspector, regarding him sadly, wearing an expression that bears the parting of bad news. Lestrade feels a knot of worry settle in his stomach, a familiar foreboding that stops everything and reduces all hope to zero.

/-/-/-/

Watson is in his practice, a young boy of eight balanced carefully on one of his knees. He has one steady hand on the boy's lower back and the other holding a stethoscope against the boy's chest, listening to the tiny rasps as he inhales. The child's mother is sat in a chair opposite, worry etching delicate lines into her forehead, her gloved hand wrapped around that of a small girl with unruly blond hair and a thumb that seems permanently fused to her mouth.

Watson finishes his examination and the boy slides off his knee gracelessly, tucks his shirt back into his trousers with impatient fingers.

"Like your father showed you, Edward," his mother reproves gently.

Shirt straightened properly and braces hanging on skinny shoulders, Edward looks at Watson hopefully, like the Doctor is made of sweets and rewards. Watson has to disappoint him as he has neither to hand, offers an apologetic smile and asks kindly, "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

He puts this question to the boy, but his sister jumps in, the thumb falling from her mouth with a wet popping sound.

"Jack Frost is after our fingers and toes," she says in a quiet voice, a hint of a lisp, and the Doctor is reminded of one of Holmes's Irregulars, that carefree abandon with words. He shakes his head, the phrase unfamiliar to him. Rhymes and songs are much different now to the ones he and his brother shared as children, words coming and going on a sea of passing time, rolling over and changing with each tide.

The mother is also shaking her head, gives Watson a smile of tolerated patience, an amused confusion shared between the two adults.

The Doctor gives his assurances that all is well, sends mother and children on their way with the agreement of a home visit. He is writing up his notes when there is a sound of rapid footsteps and a knock on the door.

Holmes appears before he can answer, the door flung wide, hinges bending in protest, and Watson thinks, _something has happened._

"Come with me, Watson," Holmes says, and his voice is so low and dangerous that Watson stands immediately, follows him without question.

/-/-/-/

Holmes looks down at the body, eyes deducing with hurried movement, hands tightly clasped behind his back. His thoughts are careening down a disused track, wheels turning and brakes screeching, theories disintegrating like rusty carriages to be replaced by shiny new ones. In the space of a minute Holmes has dissected four possible outcomes, disregarded all but one.

Watson is standing to his left and Lestrade is somewhere further away, orders leaving the Inspector's mouth in harsh snaps like splintered wood, frayed at the edges. Everything feels as delicate as a web, the dark sky spun with stars and dirty secrets. There is the scent of grime and blood in the air, buildings either side pressing in around them. At the end of the street onlookers with outstretched necks are trying to peek with morbid interest, and Lestrade hollers out, threatens arrests freely, his tone furious.

Watson's lips are pressed tightly together, his body a long bow string pulled taut beneath his coat, anger emanating from him in waves. Holmes touches a hand to his friend's elbow and Watson jolts, sucks in a breath between his teeth.

The child's face looks familiar, upturned with a frozen expression of twisted awe, but neither have seen him before. The hands and feet are bare, appendages white and snapped, brittle branches of flesh and bone. Holmes looks at the tattered scarf knotted around the small neck and thinks of his Irregulars, of Wiggins' pale face and garbled words, rumours passed from one child to another and rotted into truth.

"Jack Frost is after our fingers and toes," Holmes murmurs.

Watson stiffens beside him, grits out, " _What–"_ , and Holmes cuts him off as he takes Watson's arm, an icy hand clenching about his heart as he pulls the Doctor away.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: Oh my goodness, guys, I am so, so sorry. I appear to be riding in a first-class carriage on a train made purely of angst. :-/_


	13. A Doctor's Lot

_A/N: A nice one for you guys. After brewing my angst-infused tea, it is the least I can do._

 _Prompt 19: From mrspencil – A busy day in Watson's practice. So happy to have one of your prompts, Mrs. P. :-)_

* * *

 **A Doctor's Lot**

* * *

The man in the brown coat coughed into his handkerchief and stared at Watson helplessly from across the desk. "I think I'm dying, Doctor."

Watson breathed deep, let out an exhale with the weight of immeasurable patience behind it.

"You are not dying, Mr Harper, on this I can assure you."

The man shook his head vigorously. "No, no. I can feel it, Doctor. My end is nigh! Me old mother, she's tormenting me. She's waiting for me."

"Did you not tell me your mother had passed?"

Mr Harper nodded. "Oh yes. Went sixteen years ago. She always said my drinking would be the death of me. Well, she weren't wrong, were she!"

"I do not see how two pints a month would accomplish this, Mr Harper," Watson said. "Apart from a slight discomfort, you are in fine health."

Mr Harper gave him a look of disbelief, his gaze turning thoughtful as he twisted the handkerchief in his hands, clearly unimpressed with the Doctor's prognosis. "That chap next door, what's he specialise in?"

/-/-/-/

The woman in the mauve dress regarded Watson through teary eyes, her hand quivering as she dabbed beneath them with Watson's handkerchief.

"I cannot understand it, Doctor Watson," said she, sounding terribly young. "How can this be?"

Watson shifted in his seat, cleared his throat. "Mrs Brockton, I appreciate this must come as a shock–"

" _Shock_?" she interrupted with a cry, rising from her seat. "You are telling me that I am with child. My Gerald and I have only been wed since the autumn! How do you explain that?"

The manner of his patients never ceased to surprise Watson at times, as though they thought him capable of producing answers from the air, even at the times they knew themselves how such diagnoses came to be. He gave the woman a look of the kindest reproach and utmost understanding; she knew more than he on the matter, had regaled on him tales of her and her husband's honeymoon when she had visited him a month previous with a slight ailment.

She crumpled beneath his gaze and sat down, her face flushing. "I am sorry, Doctor. It should come as no surprise, really. Gerald has always desired children. I just did not expect it to be so soon. He – he will be delighted."

Watson tugged a clean handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, passed it over without comment as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, returned her growing smile.

/-/-/-/

The young man in the rumpled shirt and green scarf twisted his cap nervously in his hands, darting glances at everything but the Doctor. He couldn't have been any older than twenty, his face smooth and pale beneath a thin layer of grime.

"Come now, lad," Watson said with a patient tone. "There is no need to worry. Whatever you tell me remains in the strictest confidence."

The boy shifted uncomfortably, shoulders hunching. "I don't know if I should," said he with a sniff. The fact that he declined to sit was not lost on Watson, the boy's spine curved slightly as he moved.

"You are clearly in some discomfort," Watson told him. "The fact that you came to see me indicates you require aid. However, if you have had a change of heart, you are not inclined to disclose anything. Unfortunately, however, I do have other patients to attend."

He sighed. "Alright." He gingerly stepped closer to the desk. "Well, Doctor, I work at the docks and today I was helping Old Bert - that's my boss - unload one of the cargos. Well, they're pretty heavy, like, so me and Bert grabbed a side each, and then I heard something give, like a large branch snapping."

"Did you hurt your back?"

"Oh, no sir, it was Bert's back. He always said it'd go one day." He looked at him with bemusement. "Made the queerest noise, it did."

"I see." Watson frowned. "So, what is your concern?"

"Well, you see, I was laughing too hard to come to his aid, and I've done myself a mischief. I reckon I've pulled something in an unmentionable place."

Watson felt somewhat sorry for the boy's boss. He was not sure whether laughter would be his course of action if one of his friends suffered an injury that had inflicted Old Bert. Some telling must have been on his face, for the lad chuckled sheepishly.

"Don't worry about Bert, Doctor. He found it hilarious when I told him what I'd done. We made a right pair, me limping and him bent double." He smiled broadly. "I'm sure he's in good hands. He's in your waiting room."

/-/-/-/

The elderly lady in the grey cloak eyed him with a look that had Watson immediately on his guard, the tell-tale signs of a request for medicine forthcoming.

"I am sorry, Mrs Roberts," said he. "I cannot prescribe another sleeping tonic. There are limitations to how many you can take, and more will cause your body unnecessary strain."

"But they work wonders, Doctor," she insisted.

"That is good, but we should perhaps try a natural alternative."

"Oh, no, you misunderstand," said she, smiling. "They work wonders for my husband. His wheezing finally drove me to my last nerve, so I slipped the first lot you prescribed into his tea to see if it would cure his ails, and he breathed easier. I love him, mind, but forty-five years of marriage is enough for anyone to reach a breaking point."

"Mrs Roberts," Watson exclaimed, with growing alarm. "What I prescribed was a powerful dose!"

"Oh, don't I know it, Doctor. He's slept for three days straight and has only awakened to take meals." She beamed at him, eyes gleeful. "I think a week's worth will do me the world of good."

/-/-/-/

The seafarer in the blue jacket waved his arms impatiently, indignation radiating from him. "Slander, sir! You say I am suffering delusions of the mind. Well, I say your diagnosis is flawed!"

Watson stood and rubbed his eyes. "I think not, Mr Adams."

The man scoffed. "Oh! What proof have you?"

"Well, firstly, I am over here."

/-/-/-/

Eight hours after his practice had opened, Watson put down his pen and leaned heavily into his chair, bone-weary and feeling the tension of a long-drawn day settle upon his shoulders. Had an opportunity presented itself, he fancied he would have fallen asleep at his desk.

There was a soft tap on the door and the maid entered to announce another patient.

"The practice is closed," Watson told her, somewhat brusquely.

"He is most insistent, sir," said she apologetically, tugging a wayward strand of hair behind her ear as she gazed at him imploringly.

Watson took pity on her. It had been a trying day for them both, and she had prepared drinks and dealt with each one of his patients with admiring tolerance, the ramblings of Mr Adams handled remarkably well when he had mistaken her for his wife, his imaginings the ill-effects conjured from a disease contracted whilst he had been sailing back from America.

"Very well," said Watson, standing to receive his visitor. "Send him in."

The maid disappeared and a minute later an elderly man with grisly white hair shuffled into the room, holding a bottle beneath his arm, eyes shining mischievously as he regarded Watson with amusement.

The book-collector smiled. "You're surprised to see me, sir."

Watson sunk back into his chair, a smile lifting his face as Sherlock Holmes shook off his cloak and wig, leaned across the desk and pressed the bottle of whisky into his friend's hand.

* * *

 **End**


	14. Midnight Concert

_A/N: Happy new year to you all! I hope everyone has had a wonderful Christmas, and wishing all the best for 2019. Thank you for your reviews and I hope you don't mind sticking with me until mid-January as I finish my prompts. A huge thank you also to Hades for organising this fantastic challenge. I'm delighted to have been able to take part this year, and am looking forward to catching up with everyone else's submissions. :-)_

 _Prompt 29: From Sirensbane – The one time a midnight violin concert was appreciated._

* * *

 **Midnight Concert**

* * *

The sun was rising high in a sky of dull blue, heat pressing down in pulses like a heartbeat, and John Watson was being shot at in Afghanistan.

There was sand in his mouth, scratching his throat raw, and he knew with certainty that he was going to die here. There was a pain in his leg that burned, his flesh scorching hot, and he was crawling on his forearms like the lowest of creatures. The cries and shouts around him wouldn't stop, wounded men screaming in high-pitched agony as they fell and fled beneath the assault. Watson gritted his teeth; he didn't want to make a noise. Fear scuttled through his veins, made his chest tight. He continued to crawl, wanted to find a quiet place where he could leave this world in peace.

A hand appeared in the dirt near Watson's head, fingers pushed into the ground, and Watson thought distantly that it must belong to someone nearby. A weight settled on his back and he nearly blacked out, couldn't stop the pained moan that escaped his lips.

A voice was calling his name, the familiar tones of his orderly seeping into his mind. He caught words as they drifted by, each one floating past like ships on the sea, giant letters painted and peeling away.

"–stand? Can you stand, Watson?"

Watson shook his head, pushed his face deeper into the dirt. He didn't think he would ever stand again, and that thought frightened him, brought bitter tears to his eyes. He wanted to tell Murray to leave him; he couldn't go back to England if he wasn't whole. His family wouldn't want him back if he was broken.

He heard more words, jumbled and scattered, and then there was an explosion and a loud scrape that cut across his senses like a knife, screeching against the delicate parts of his brain. The scene around him shattered like glass, hurtling Watson towards wakefulness.

/-/-/-/

It took him a moment to place where he was, memories disappearing like rain down a gutter. Moonlight was streaming through the window, slashing across his stomach, and he focused on that until some sense of order returned. His hand was clenched in the bed sheets. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

There was another noise, too, the scraping sound that had woken him. Thoughts settled onto safer ground and the distinctive notes of a violin flooded the air.

 _Holmes_ , Watson thought, and he should have been annoyed, angry. But he was relieved, so damned relieved that the detective's untimely solos had invaded his mind, pushed memories abruptly out of the way.

Only now he was wide awake. With a sigh Watson pushed back the bed covers and reached for his dressing gown, fingers trembling slightly.

Down the stairs he trudged, his legs heavy, his limp more pronounced with every step. The living room door seemed so far away, the noise growing louder in a final crescendo as he walked towards it. By the time he reached the handle the melody had finished.

Holmes was facing the window, his violin tucked beneath his neck, his bow clutched between loose fingers at his side. He turned as Watson entered, not looking at all surprised to see the Doctor there.

There was a calculated look on Holmes's face as his eyes scanned Watson, and Watson wanted to pull his robe tighter, shield himself from being read like an open book. There were chapters of his life he didn't want Holmes to see, and he knew it a was hopeless feeling because Holmes saw _everything_ , that much Watson knew. People were libraries and Holmes tore in without thought, plucked volumes from shelves with abandon, read every word without preamble. The doctor had been living with Holmes for nigh on a year and Holmes had read all of him, down to the tattered pages of Watson's darkest memories. It was rather unfair, Watson thought, Holmes knowing everything about him when Watson hardly knew enough about Holmes, barely a page's worth.

Watson lowered his gaze. His hands twitched by his sides. He could taste dirt and blood, felt a swift sick feeling settle in his stomach. He wasn't even sure why he had come downstairs. Surely he was asking for ridicule. Or perhaps he should be scolding Holmes for the midnight concert.

But Holmes merely said his name, and when Watson met those grey eyes again they were void of judgement, the book of Watson closed. Holmes nodded to the sofa and lifted the bow, settling it across the strings.

"Any requests, Doctor?" he asked, a knowing glint in his eye that made Watson wonder whether the performance had been impromptu to begin with.

* * *

 **End**


	15. Sound of Silence

_A/N:_ _Apologies in advance, I am still aboard the angst train … kinda. :-) This one may have gotten away from me a_ _little._

 _Prompt 24: From Book girl fan – A silent night for all._

* * *

 **Sound of Silence**

* * *

Mrs Hudson was in Baker Street, stood inside the dimly lit front hall. Two bags were beside the door, one containing clothes and the other containing presents. She was going to her sister's for the remainder of the holiday.

The rooms upstairs had been vacant for two and a half years now. She felt the silence most during the winter months, when the snow muffled all outside and pushed against the windows, trying to peek within. It was somewhat peculiar, having no tenants to tend to, but Mycroft Holmes had been insistent, covered the rent every month without fail, and it was a comfortable living; she couldn't deny it. However, there was definitely something missing.

She heard a cab draw up outside, dull footsteps as the driver alighted and approached the door, tugged on the bell.

Mrs Hudson tightened her coat and picked up her bags. She glanced up the stairs, a thoughtful expression on her face, and opened the door, left memories and the faint sound of her previous tenants behind.

/-/-/-/

Mycroft Holmes was in the Diogenes Club, sat in an armchair beside the fireplace, the last member remaining after everyone had retired for the night. Staff glided through the room like phantoms, arms laden with trays of tableware, the only indication that he wasn't completely alone.

He held a glass of whisky in one hand and a letter from his brother in the other. It had been well over two years since Sherlock's supposed death and his missives were few and far between. Mycroft had taken to sending telegrams during the times he knew of Sherlock's exact location; short, sharp requests that asked his brother to confirm whether he was alive, veiled in code and hidden barbs. He would often receive one-worded answers: _NO STOP_. They were Sherlock's way of reassuring and annoying him at the same time.

The message in his hand gave him little knowledge to his brother's whereabouts, save that he was still on the Continent. It was written in a calm scrawl, told him that at present he was not in imminent danger. Sherlock had somehow managed to wish him the compliments of the season, which indicated that his brother knew what day it was, at least.

Mycroft finished his drink and screwed the letter up, tossed it into the fire. He kept none of the messages delivered to him, denied all knowledge of Sherlock's existence until the next correspondence arrived.

He stood and approached the window, watched the snow fall beyond the pane and the yawning silence beyond. Lamplights pushed orange orbs into the grey street, provided weak light to those scurrying below, their heads bent against the flurry. Mycroft fancied he saw a familiar figure amongst the few that passed by, however the snow obstructed his view.

He turned away, his thoughts briefly settling on the good Doctor before they scattered, and his mind was quiet once again.

/-/-/-/

John Watson was in his study.

He had ten minutes ago returned from a patient's bedside and his mind felt soft and tired, images playing across with intermissions; a pale face against a cream pillow, skin damp and clammy, red hair fanned out like a halo, a soft whisper, a crushing weight gripping his forearm and leaving bruises.

He touched his fingers to the marks on his skin, rubbed them absentmindedly, his souvenirs for this night. He pressed the bottom of his empty brandy glass across his arm, saw the colours fade, the sensation cooling. Beneath his skin frustration hummed, oblivious to outward appearances, and Watson breathed deep, tried not to think about it. Death was following him too closely these days.

Two and a half years since Reichenbach (over nine-hundred and eleven days, if one wanted to narrow it down, but Watson wasn't going to that place). Two months since Mary's passing (sixty-one days, eleven hours and fifty-eight minutes). Over two hours by a bedside and the man who had gripped his arm at the end and said nothing, only gazed at Watson with pleading eyes. He'd had to raise his voice – _release me, sir, there is nothing I can do for her now_ – and it had made him feel cruel, his oath to protect and heal a lie. He did not think the impression of the man's fingers would diminish.

Watson felt hollow, bits of him dug out. He wondered how much further he could fall.

He rubbed a hand across his eyes, pushed fingers into his forehead. He tried to ignore the silence that was pressing in from all sides, interrupted faintly by the distant clang of a church bell which signalled the midnight hour.

He would have given anything to hear a voice.

/-/-/-/

Sherlock Holmes was in a tenement in France, sat on cold floorboards that felt too soft for his weight. An upturned crate was in front of him, a gaslight and a single piece of paper lying atop.

The paper had been blank for forty minutes, but this was nothing new. In his absence he had attempted to write many times, wasted more sheets than he could count, his failures consumed by fire or lost to the wind. A pen lay nearby and he did not touch it, merely stared.

He was devoid of words, he realised, a chasm with nothing to drop into, the paper in front of him favouring the silence of the night. He wondered if he should send a telegram similar to those he had sent Mycroft; _ALIVE STOP_ , wondered what Watson would make of it. He dismissed the idea immediately; his sense of humour was harsher than Watson's and he would never be forgiven for such an abrupt method.

He lit a cigarette, tipped his head back and stared at the opposite wall. There would be no words; there never was, never would be. Or if there were, it would not be enough.

The dark sky outside the window had no moon and was lifeless, gave nothing away. He wondered fleetingly if Watson could see the moon, wondered who his friend would be passing New Year's Eve with. A cold weight settled about his heart and he sighed, turned his thoughts to a safer path.

He thought of London, the smog that encased it like a plague, buried people in droves and hid secrets. He thought about the narrow streets and cobbled roads, dark alleyways concealing wrongdoings, the Thames smelling of damp and copper. He could feel the pull of the city like a physical tug against his ribs, did not need words to describe this feeling, knew without a doubt he was ready to return home.

There was too much silence here. Even the floorboards didn't creak.

He wanted to hear a voice.

/-/-/-/

Five months later, Holmes was back in London dressed in the guise of a dock worker, the noise of humanity gushing like a steam engine in his ears as he stepped off the gangway. Shouts and cries flew overhead like gunshots and he logged each one, but none contained a tone of familiarity.

He did not wish to hear the calls of strangers, yet three years of oppressive silence and his own thoughts was more than enough for any man. He was relieved to be back on known ground despite the danger that followed him.

He tugged his cap low, shadowed his eyes from the world, and nudged his way through the crowds.

He did not need to see where he was going.

He went in search of Watson.

* * *

 **End**


	16. Reminiscent

_A/N: Back again! I'm afraid words took flight for me briefly (there is a shadow of writer's block in the corner. I believe it means ill intent …) :-p I rewrote this a few times and am not completely satisfied with it, but that is the way of writing, lol._

 _Prompt 27: From KnightFury – A gift is received a little late. Prompt 28: From Wordwielder – Silent night. Combining two for this one._

* * *

 **Reminiscent**

* * *

It is 1893.

The sky is a black chasm above the city, a long stretch of liquid ink as far as the eye can see, stars scattered without thought. The grittier parts of London are in the spotlight tonight, the full moon a glaring beacon to shine upon unfortunate souls who scuttle down alleyways to avoid its gaze. A smell lingers in the air that is leaps from pleasant, tastes like copper and dirt.

There is a body lying face-down in the murky water of the Thames, and Watson thinks, _here we are again._

Except this time there is no _we_. No Holmes.

Lestrade is standing to the Doctor's left, a tight grimace on his face, his cheek cut with neat precision by a shaft of moonlight. There is a boat rocking on the surface of the water next to the dead man, one of its ropes conveniently hooked onto a pale limb.

They watch as two policemen wade into the water to retrieve the body, their faces sombre as they set about the task.

"How long?" Watson asks.

"He was found a half hour ago. Reported missing at nine o'clock when he did not return from his shift." Lestrade's eyes shadow. "His wife gave the description."

"Is this man certainly her husband?"

The policemen have laid the body in front of them, turned him over. Lestrade nods, his eyes locking onto the dead man's bare arm. Watson follows his gaze, sees a tattoo crawling from the wrist to disappear into a wet shirtsleeve, an inky vine of identification.

"I'm afraid so." Lestrade sighs, glances at Watson. "I'm sorry to call you out, Doctor."

Watson smiles. It feels misplaced, not as reassuring as he hopes. He suspects Lestrade notices, but neither mention it.

"It's fine, Lestrade."

Watson crouches to his knees, peers into the swollen face and thinks there are other ways he could be spending his New Year's Eve, but this is where he belongs; at the edge of the river with the body of a stranger and London hushed and grim.

The night yawns and stretches out before them, promises silence and just the right amount of death.

/-/-/-/

The cab driver turns into Baker Street when Watson heads home, and he does not realise until familiar doors come into view, the numbers searing his vision like a brand. His heart turns slowly in his chest.

Without thinking he raps on the cab roof with his cane, calls for the driver to stop. The cab pulls up three doors down from 221B.

The street is deserted when Watson alights, which comes as no surprise given the late hour. Soft light from selective windows push out into the night like hazy gold frames, glimpses of life within.

Watson's eyes are immediately drawn to his old haunt like a fired bullet. There is a sharp outline of Holmes in the window, watching him, and Watson should be shocked, but he doesn't pay much heed to this because Holmes is everywhere.

It doesn't bother Watson as much as it used to.

Holmes is here on the pavement next to him, the detective's cane rapping sharply against the ground, one arm hooked within Watson's. Holmes is here ascending the steps of their home, coat tails flicking dramatically. There is a scuff somewhere from when Holmes slipped on the ice five winters ago and nearly broke his ankle had Watson not broken his fall, the Doctor suffering a sprained wrist for his efforts of preventing both from sprawling into the road. Holmes is here helping Lestrade alight from a cab when the Inspector came to their home bruised and bloodied one mild spring. Holmes is here smiling at Watson and Mary as they leave to go on their honeymoon, his hand tightly gripping Watson's in farewell.

His fingers had been warm, Watson remembers. It had surprised him at the time because Holmes's hands were usually cold, then he recalls that Holmes's hands were in his pockets before they had parted ways.

Holmes always spoke about the minute details, and Watson sees his friend with alarming clarity. Holmes is engrained into his memory and that is where he will remain, following the Doctor everywhere. Watson wears him like a second skin, heavy and familiar and merely _there_. Always there.

The driver suddenly clicks his tongue. His voice snaps harshly, "Are you going to stand there all night? Some of us would like to go home."

And Watson thinks with a heart that feels coated in lead, _So would I._

/-/-/-/

He is putting on his dressing gown when there is a tug on the doorbell, the sound long and shrill in the silence.

Watson descends the stairs somewhat reluctantly, as though whatever ails have been brought to his door may disperse by the time he reaches it.

Lestrade is standing there and he immediately thinks something is wrong, another body found or two or five, but then the Inspector smiles gently and the tension in his shoulders eases a little.

"I apologise for the late hour, Doctor," Lestrade says, tipping his hat. "I wished to give you the compliments of the season before you retired, and to give you this."

He presses a wrapped bottle into Watson's hand, nods at the Doctor to open it. Watson unravels the string at the neck and feels his heart stutter softly when the brown paper falls away to reveal a bottle of whisky, a familiar marking coming into view.

"I believe this was Mr Holmes's favoured brand," Lestrade notes, genuinely pleased.

For a moment words fail Watson, his chest tightening at the heartfelt gesture. He swallows and nods before extending his hand.

"Thank you, Lestrade. This is very thoughtful. Will you come in and join me for a glass?"

"I don't wish to impose," Lestrade says.

They both pause at his words, the silence of Watson's home pressing in around them, no gentle presence of Mary or chaotic presence of Holmes to disturb it. Lestrade adds, "However I would be delighted," gripping Watson's hand reassuringly, and the weight of the moment passes.

When they are both seated comfortably either side of the lit fire, glasses in hand, Lestrade tells him, "I've just returned from visiting Mr Barker's wife."

"How is she?"

Lestrade shakes his head, a sigh escaping him in a long exhale. He tilts his glass, watches the liquid sway. "She didn't wish to believe me at first. I had to mention the tattoo repeatedly."

"I'm sorry, Lestrade."

"Comes with the job, Doctor," Lestrade says, shoulders squaring slightly, a faint curl of displeasure on his lips as he looks at Watson. "Our lot is never a happy one."

Watson makes a noise of agreement, his gaze travelling to the fire thoughtfully. "No. I suppose not."

He can feel Lestrade searching his face, a warm itch growing beneath his skin at the gentle scrutiny, and Watson thinks suddenly he has done the Inspector a disservice, shadowed him behind Holmes's intellect when Lestrade so often wears the same calculating expression that Holmes was wont to portray. A coil of guilt gathers inside of Watson, pulls taut, words he could have written flashing through his mind.

"Doctor, have I ever told you about when I first met Mr Holmes?" Lestrade asks unexpectedly, and Watson looks up in surprise, the coil abruptly snapping.

Lestrade is smiling at him. He gives Watson a knowing look, leans back in his chair as he begins to speak.

They talk for a long time. The new year draws in with memories and tales, unknown cases creeping up with the approaching dawn, the cold grief that clutches at Watson's heart thawing bit by bit, whisky warming them both from the inside. Watson tells Lestrade about the case involving the elusive opera singer. Lestrade tells Watson about the case of the poisonous cat, and Watson wonders if he heard right or whether the whisky is softening his edges. He doesn't bother asking Lestrade to repeat certain words. A poisonous cat is highly plausible, he reckons.

Unless he said poisonous rat, which he supposes is also plausible. He knows that some of Holmes's earlier cases were bizarre in nature. He is about to ask when Lestrade glances at the window, makes a quick noise of surprised contentment.

Lestrade lifts his glass, says, "To a new year, Doctor Watson," with a smile on his face. "May it be kinder to us both."

Watson echoes the sentiment, touches his glass to Lestrade's. Bright light pushes against the windows, paints the room orange, and the day already promises to be a clearer one. There are church bells ringing in the distance, the proclaimer of a new time.

The sun has risen and London is stirring.

It is 1894.

* * *

 **End**


	17. Puzzle

_A/N:_ _I'm going a teeny bit AU with case numbers here. :-) I wrote two responses to this and will try to post the other when I manage to finish it. Thank you all for your kind reviews thus far!_

 _Prompt 17: From Ennui Enigma – Moriarty gives Holmes a puzzle for Christmas._

* * *

 **Puzzle**

* * *

Holmes knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into their sitting room. He paused on the threshold, stopped in the act of removing his coat.

On the surface, things appeared fine. The fire was lit and pushing heat out in absence of the setting sun. The table was set for dinner. The Christmas decorations that Mrs Hudson had put out were exactly where she had placed them. The room was littered with discarded papers and ash that had fallen to the carpet like black snow, a failed result of Holmes's experiment that morning.

Yet Watson was not there.

It shouldn't have surprised him, the Doctor often keeping late hours, but there were glaringly obvious mistakes with the scene before him; a half-drunk cup of tea sitting away from the saucer, Watson's coat hung up, and a scent in the air that bespoke of misfortune, so strong that Holmes could fairly taste it.

Something had happened.

He reacted on instinct, started moving quickly around the room, followed Watson's steps like a ghost, placed his feet where his friend's had been. For a moment he was a puppet on strings, tugged across the room, following movements that were not his own. His hand came to rest on the door frame that led out to the landing, fingers settling atop four smudged imprints, inky grey marks from where Watson had held a newspaper. Watson had clung onto the frame, left a mark that may as well have been carved into the wood, so vivid it appeared. He had not gone willingly.

A sunken feeling settled in Holmes's chest, prised muscle apart and mixed in with his blood to make it run cold.

He removed his hand, felt the muscle in his jaw tighten. Watson's cane was lying to one side and Holmes's eyes alighted on it immediately, a small strip of white tied with string around the top drawing his gaze.

He knelt down and removed the piece of paper, felt his blood crystallize as he scanned the sparse words.

He should have known. He _had_ known.

He knew it would come to this. Knew his association with the Doctor would be the deciding factor. All the years of cool responses and attempts at detachment on his part amounted to nothing; he may as well have been made of glass, see-through, a permanent window in which to look and observe. Moriarty had wiped the pane clean and peered within, got inside their lives without even trying. He suspected Watson's publications had not helped, the regard Watson held for him written plain, woven meanings beneath words of admiration, and Holmes had not stopped it, had allowed their bond to deepen; provided another window for Moriarty to gaze into. Forty-six chronicled cases and Watson had condemned them both.

Holmes felt anger nudge inside his skin, and it concerned him that it wasn't directed at Watson. He thought it should have been; that Watson should take some responsibility for this. It was unfair for this to be one-sided, this emotion humming deep beneath his skin like a slumbering creature. It was too much for Holmes to bear alone, frustrated him beyond words that he couldn't stop it.

He picked up Watson's cane, curled his fingers around it, his face a layer of grim determination.

He had work to do.

The note fell to the floor as he left. It landed upwards, bold letters swimming into view.

 _FIND THE DOCTOR._ _M._

* * *

 **End**


	18. Gentleman, Place Your Bets

_A/N:_ _Slowly but surely working my way through the remaining prompts. Ye old writer's block is lurking at the bottom of the garden, but I'm keeping an eye on it. :-p_

 _Prompt 18: From Sirensbane – Holmes and Watson bet against the Yarders._

* * *

 **Gentleman, Place Your Bets**

* * *

This is what Holmes and Watson have been told: old Henry McGuinness has gone missing.

The name is unfamiliar to Watson, fourteen cases carried out with Holmes since their first meeting a year ago and no McGuinness in sight, no significance to conjure a face or memory.

Holmes, however, recognises this unknown person immediately, a telegram signed from a Mr J. McGuinness in his hand requesting that old Henry is found as a matter of utmost importance and a lack of faith in entrusting this task to the local constabulary.

An hour later sees the two standing inside Scotland Yard, Holmes and Watson on one side of the front desk and Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson on the other.

The air is charged with tension, so palpable and vivid it may as well be spun with liquid gold. Watson is stood to one side, keeping a reasonable distance away whilst Holmes stands in front of him. Holmes is exchanging exasperated words with Inspector Gregson, who has information of Henry's last whereabouts but will not part with it. It is on a need-to-know basis, the Inspector is saying, and Holmes, in his opinion, does not need to know.

"I have been hired by Joseph McGuinness to find Henry," Holmes tells him.

"He has already filed a report with us, Mr Holmes," says Gregson, with some annoyance. "Rest assured we shall find him. You have wasted a journey in coming here."

"Be that as it may, Inspector, I have my own duty to perform."

"I did not think the disappearance of petty thieves would be of any interest to you, Mr Holmes," says Gregson, mouth close to a sneer. "Henry's reputation for pinching household wares is hardly worth your time. I suspect Joseph McGuinness is paying you handsomely."

"Gregson," Lestrade intones warningly. He is stood to one side also, looking like he'd rather be anywhere than here, his face pinched.

"A number of things interest me, Inspector," Holmes replies in a voice that is both measured and infuriating. "I have been summoned because there is sincere doubt in Joseph McGuinness's mind that you will return his charge to him, which is evident from past occurrences as this is the fourth time Henry McGuinness has gone missing. That alone is worth his procurement of my services. I intend to have him home before this night is through."

"Oh?" Gregson's lip curls, a brief hint of a grin. "Care to place a wager on that?"

"Surely you are not serious, Inspector," Watson asks, shocked, his brows arching. "What good will it do?" He looks at Holmes, but his friend's eyes are glinting with a familiar light that Watson recognises, has him instantly on his guard.

Holmes leans across the desk, gaze locked with Gregson, the tension shifting. "If you play this game with me, Inspector, you will not win."

Gregson smirks. "Ten pounds say we find him before you."

"Very well," Holmes agrees, not a thought given to the proposal, shaking Gregson's outstretched hand before Watson can protest.

The Inspector takes a piece of paper from a large pile on the desk and hands this to Holmes. "Old Henry's report." He turns to Watson, his expression almost gleeful. "Doctor Watson, care to weigh in?"

"No, I do not," Watson answers sharply, uncomfortable with the way this conversation has turned so swiftly. He has never known Holmes to involve himself in such schemes and is not overly happy with the current situation, his displeasure worn plain.

Gregson looks to Lestrade, but the other Inspector is already shaking his head.

"Count me out," Lestrade states, he and Watson on mutual ground, a sensibility settling between them. Watson briefly thinks about standing with him, a resistance to this folly, but his loyalty to Holmes is like steel thread woven in his blood, pulling taut when conflict is let loose.

"This is becoming beneath you, Gregson," Lestrade is telling his colleague with a sigh as he moves around the desk. "Yes, Burton, what is it?"

The young constable has appeared seemingly from nowhere, his expression sheepish. "Sorry to interrupt, sir. Me and some of the other lads couldn't help but overhear, and we were wondering if we could add to the pot?"

/-/-/-/

Watson has moved outside to wait for Holmes, the winter wind bitterly cold against his exposed skin. Lestrade is stood close by, shoulder to shoulder, their small resistance borne after all. The moon is a lopsided grin above them, the stars applauding, finding bemusement in this night more than the Doctor.

Watson sighs audibly, his breath fanning out in front of him.

"Don't worry, Doctor," Lestrade tells him, offering Watson one of his cigarettes. "This isn't the first time they've had a wager."

Watson is shocked by this fact, but manages to keep his expression neutral. "The whole thing seems to have gotten out of hand," he huffs, annoyed but not so much to warrant directing it at Holmes. The detective has more of a following at the Yard than Watson suspected, wagers swapping hands so fast after his and Gregson's exchange that over one hundred pounds is now lying on the cards of old Henry's recovery.

Watson isn't sure what to make of this new development; the fact that bets lay on a person's life and wellbeing does not sit well with his conscience at all, his duty as a medical man driving the unease home.

"You disagree," Lestrade says calmly, his eyes searching Watson's face as he draws on his cigarette.

Watson makes a humming noise. "I confess I'm surprised they would both stoop to such an act."

"Makes the chase more interesting, Doctor," Lestrade replies honestly. He breathes out, smoke drifting skywards, and shakes his head. "Although, if I were Joseph McGuinness, I'd save myself the trouble and invest in a leash for Henry, crafty old codger that he is."

Watson is nodding, thinking, _yes, yes, that would be wise_ , when his brain stutters, comes up short, the rational part of his mind appearing and he nearly chokes on his cigarette. He is suddenly affronted, appalled deeply at Lestrade's words, because betting or no, this is certainly no way to talk about treating a man.

He glances at the Inspector, face wiped clean with shock, and Lestrade looks equally surprised at Watson's reaction before he grins knowingly, his eyes shining. Watson catches on even as Lestrade starts speaking.

"My apologies, Doctor. You didn't know!"

Lestrade is laughing now but Watson is not offended; he knows he's missed something big through no fault of his own.

Lestrade calms down quickly, tells him with a warm smile, "Old Henry is Joseph McGuinness's dog. Goes missing like clockwork every year." He jerks his thumb to the open door where they can see Holmes and Gregson, firing parting words across the desk. "What you're seeing is what we call the Old Henry Annual Christmas Hunt. Money gets donated to the local orphanage at the end. As it stands, the results are tied."

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: Anyone care to have a wager? It's for a good cause. :-) Who will find old Henry first, do you think?_


	19. Gingerbread

_A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys. I'm still playing catch-up and warding off the writer's block (back, you evil demon!). Once again, thank you for all your kind reviews. You are all wonderful. :-)_

 _Prompt 30: From mrspencil – Gingerbread._

* * *

 _Dedicated to I'm Nova and Westron Wynde - for the love of angst and present tense._

* * *

 **Gingerbread**

* * *

The sun is slowly setting, burnishing the city to gold, glinting off hansom wheels and wet cobbles as the light descends. London is humming with noise, sounds rolling in to crash like waves against the buildings, a plethora of voices fighting for dominance.

Watson is working his way through the throng, people pressing in from all sides, fleshy barriers of arms and legs to navigate. There is the smell of damp in the air, another downpour imminent. He thinks about hailing a cab but it is too crowded, quicker for him to go on foot.

Within twenty minutes he arrives at his destination; a small house with a green painted door. The paint is peeling away near the handle. There is a wreath hanging atop the door knocker, sparse but well-meant, given the season. He gives the bell rope a tug, his lips pressing together. The air is suddenly sour and Watson breathes deep, prepares himself. Although there is no such thing as preparation for what is not yet known; the one cruel aspect to his profession.

The door opens, light spilling onto the porch, and events blur into harsh memories after that.

A spotted apron, the hem frayed in places. A kindly face of the woman wearing it as she ushers him in. An overwhelming smell of baking. Wilting wallpaper in the sitting room, strips bowing toward the floor. Heat from the fireplace warming his cheeks. A bundle of blankets on the sofa, from which a tiny pale face peeked out. Two large eyes staring up at him. Small fingers offering him a biscuit. An examination. An incurable diagnosis. The mother's broken expression etching into Watson's mind, settling behind his eyes to never be forgotten again.

There are words, though Watson cannot remember what he says. He soothes. He comforts. He _tries_.

It is not enough.

/-/-/-/

It is late when he walks back to Baker Street, the sun vanished completely. The rain has started, the bustling noise from before replaced by sighs of rapidly falling water.

Watson feels bits of him coming away with each step, dropping into the fast-forming puddles, memories fading to be replaced immediately with new ones. _Green door … flecks of paint … the wreath._

Words.

 _What did I say,_ he thinks, dismayed, but it hardly matters now. He reaches the steps of his home, wet and cold, walks inside with hunched shoulders. He removes his coat and ascends the stairs, enters the sitting room with a heavy heart.

Holmes is stood beside the window, pipe in hand, observing the world below. The window is open slightly, cool damp air trickling in as the smoke from Holmes's pipe trickles out.

The detective turns to him, goes to speak, but then he closes his mouth as he catches a look at Watson, scans the Doctor from head to toe in less than thirty seconds.

Watson resists the urge to look away, feels Holmes's gaze like a hot itch beneath his skin. He isn't sure he wants to be in this room, thinks he is standing too close, too many walls ... _fallen strips of wallpaper ... blankets ... a hand …_

No, he decides quickly. He doesn't want to stay, turns to leave—

"Watson," Holmes says, voice slightly rough around the end of his name, and it is enough. Watson's hand curls tight around the handle of his bag before he puts it down, turns back to face Holmes, his shoulders tightening in defence, though against what he does not know. He sometimes wishes Holmes doesn't have the ability to read people like this, cannot break away from the gentle scrutiny he is now being subjected to. He feels like his skin is peeling back, another layer gone, leaving him exposed and uncomfortable.

Watson swallows hard. "I. I don't." And he isn't sure where he's going with that, cuts himself off with a harsh breath. He removes a small wrapped parcel from his pocket, steps closer and passes it without comment to Holmes.

Holmes places his pipe on the table and unwraps the parcel carefully, furrows appearing on his brow as the paper falls away. He meets Watson's gaze and the Doctor can see Holmes piecing parts together as he searches Watson's face, fragmented bits of Watson's evening laid out like the cracked biscuit resting in his palm.

"He gave me that," Watson supplies, voice quiet to his own ears. Then he adds, "The boy," as though that will provide a missing piece.

Holmes is looking at him, a soft glint to his eyes, says nothing. There is nothing he can say. A slither of guilt curls about Watson's heart and he feels bad he has corrupted the atmosphere with this sadness, is solely responsible for the look now on Holmes's face.

"Holmes." Watson stops, not sure where he's going with that either. He sighs, snags a hand through his hair. He doesn't feel entirely whole right now; is suddenly angry and frustrated with himself, this sickening inability to heal. _Tiny fingers ... tears wiped away with a spotted apron ... words ... sorryI'msoterriblysorry ..._

Holmes lets out a breath, a sharp exhale of Watson's name, draws his attention immediately. Holmes's hand is resting on Watson's shoulder, anchoring him, and it is better than words, better than any of Watson's broken thoughts.

The moon has risen, soft light pushed inside the glass, burnishing all to white, and the fresh smell of tobacco and gingerbread seeps through the open window.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: ... I am a terrible person …*hides away in angst-built hut*_


	20. Christmas Pudding

_A/N: Come hell or high water, this challenge will be finished, lol._

 _Prompt 21: From WinterWinks221 - Lestrade makes Christmas pudding._

* * *

 **Christmas Pudding**

* * *

"You first."

"No, you first. I insist."

"I wouldn't wish to deprive you of the opportunity."

"Oh, deprive away, Doctor, by all means."

Holmes and Watson are at a stalemate, gazes locked across the sitting room table, the early setting sun leaking through the window behind them, painting surfaces in dusk. A Christmas pudding is on a plate in the centre of the table, a sprig of holly saluting from the top and watching them expectantly. Watson has a knife in one hand and there is a lingering smell in the air that speaks of raisins with a hint of unspoken dread.

Watson is looking at Holmes with uncertainty. "I'm not sure that I should."

Holmes leans across the table, says earnestly, "Watson, if you value our friendship, you will deprive me of this venture."

"And what of you?" Watson asks, a challenge in his tone. "Why must I be the one to try it first?"

"Because Lestrade entrusted it to you, my dear fellow. It was your choice to bring it into our abode."

Watson sighs, the knife coming to rest against the plate with a soft clink. "Mrs Hudson insisted."

Amusement lifts the edge of Holmes's mouth. "Yes, well. Perhaps we should ask the good lady to take the first piece."

Watson shakes his head, returns the smile. He examines the pudding as though it is a client, trying to fathom something about it. Or rather, how it came to be in their possession. Lestrade had only stammered a brief thank you to him when he'd placed the plate in Watson's hands. "Why would he go to the trouble, do you think?"

"One does wonder," Holmes murmurs, not sounding overly interested at all.

"Have you perturbed him recently?" If this is an act of revenge, Watson doesn't wish to be an unintended target. Far better that Holmes takes whatever repercussions there may be if an insult to Lestrade's character has been made.

Holmes has the audacity to give this some thought, gazing at their offering with steepled fingers. "Nothing that springs to mind. I suspect that this is a task carried out in respect of his wife who, I understand, has come down with a touch of flu and has been unable to carry out her annual festive duties."

"It can't be that bad if Mrs Lestrade has instructed him on what to do," Watson says. "Though his presentation could use a little–"

Holmes raises his brows at him.

"– a _lot_ of work," Watson amends, "I'm sure the taste will be okay. It's not always about the presentation, is it?"

"Do not let Mrs Hudson hear you say that," Holmes warns, his eyes glinting as he smiles. "I imagine she would beg to differ."

"Perhaps." Watson lifts the knife. "Okay, enough delaying. The least we can do is _both_ give it a try."

/-/-/-/

An hour later sees Holmes inside the Diogenes Club, the Christmas pudding taking pride of place on Mycroft's desk, minus a piece. The elder Holmes is staring at it wearily, his expression turning to one of utmost suspicion as he lifts his gaze to his brother.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Sherlock?" It is not a question and both translate it to mean, _what do you want?_

"Nothing at all. I simply wished to pass on the compliments of the season." Holmes pushes the plate closer to his brother, says nothing about the obvious flaw.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: I'm not sure if it's edible, Mycroft ... but then again, I'm sure Mrs Lestrade is a fine cook and her husband's handling of death on a daily basis did nothing to spoil the taste. :-p_


	21. Snowdrops

_A/N: Apologies for the short piece. I think it is well established that I like – fine,_ _ **love**_ _– writing angst, and am clearly trying to cram it into less words, lol. (I'm not really, but it's just how this one has turned out). Someone put an 'I heart angst' label on my forehead and let's leave it at that. ;-)_

 _Prompt 13: From BookRookie12 – Snowdrops._

* * *

 **Snowdrops**

* * *

It was snowing.

This is what Watson will remember.

Ten or twenty or many years from now, if he is ever asked about this night, he will say, "It was snowing," because he knows he won't be able to say anything else. Or at least this is what he thinks.

London has been covered for a week now, the grime and grey smoothed aside for whiteness that shines in the gaslight and hushes all sound. The city has never quite looked so picturesque, the snow arriving in a timely manner for Christmas and showing no intention of leaving until well after the new year.

The moon is low and full, a giant white eye watching through his sitting room windows, highlighting a strip of wallpaper on the back wall that stubbornly refused to stay up long after he and Mary bought the house, and this is what Watson is looking at. The silence from outside has crept in, almost setting his nerves on edge. His fingers keep curling, not quite making fists, hanging loose by his sides because he doesn't know what else to do.

His wife is upstairs, a blanket covering everything but her face, because Watson couldn't bring himself to do that. She wanted to see the snow, the full flakes that drifted past their bedroom window. Watson can see them from where he is stood, still falling, thick white drops scuttling downwards beyond the glass like icy spiders. He wonders if Mary is seeing the same thing now.

He is torn from his thoughts by the sharp peal of the bell pull, a brief hammer against his chest as he starts. Watson remains where he is, debating whether to answer it, before wandering into the hallway. He opens the door, the cold seeping in immediately, everything beyond his doorstep white and sharp and alive.

Lestrade is standing there, his hat in his hands and a look of sorrow on his face that is not far from matching Watson's.

But his wife is still alive, Watson thinks, a bitter taste to it, and then he feels awful, a sickening flint of shame igniting in his gut. He immediately wants to cut his gaze down but Lestrade is looking at him like he knows exactly what Watson is thinking, his eyes forgiving, and Watson is unable to look away.

Lestrade extends his hand, fingers trembling slightly from the cold. Watson grips it without thought, steps backwards as Lestrade steps over the threshold.

They stand facing each other, Watson's hand warming Lestrade's and Lestrade's cooling his. Watson says nothing; he feels too hollow and brittle. He thinks he is gripping Lestrade's hand too hard but the Inspector doesn't try to pull away, his grip just as firm, until Watson cannot tell which hand is trembling more.

"I'm so sorry, Doctor," Lestrade says, his tone sincere, and Watson feels his heart sinking, blood and muscle slipping painfully between his ribs and dropping deep like the heavily falling snow outside.

* * *

 **End**


	22. Rather Bee

_A/N: Apologies for the lateness and another short one! However, just to throw it out there, I'm hoping to do more writing/prompts once I've properly finished this challenge. So, if anyone has any ideas or thinks of a word-prompt they'd like me to corrupt–_ _ **cough**_ _–_ tackle _, then please do pop me a PM. I'm trying to make 2019 a creative one. :-)_

 _Prompt 26: From cjnwriter - How did Holmes's interest in beekeeping begin?_

* * *

 **Rather Bee**

* * *

"I'm telling yer, Mr 'olmes, if you want ta know who did it, ask the bees."

Holmes and Watson are in Midsomer Farthing, a quaint green-lit village standing on the borders of Oxfordshire. The sun is bright and warm, beaming down on them from a sky of perfect blue, highlighting the sandy coloured stone of old Mr Thompson's cottage. There is a sweet smell in the air, mingling in with the sandwiches and tea resting on the table at which they are sat.

Holmes is looking at Watson, an amused quirk to his brow. Watson is not sure what to say and merely smiles, shakes his head briefly.

"The bees?" Holmes echoes, turning his attention back to Mr Thompson.

"Aye, they see an' 'ear more than most." Mr Thompson makes a sweeping gesture to the hives lined up like squared forts at the bottom of his garden. Bees hover around the edges like energetic soldiers, darting in and out, oblivious to the stares of Mr Thompson's visitors.

"How long have you been a beekeeper, Mr Thompson?" Watson asks, deciding not to focus on the subject of how the old man expects Holmes to ask his bees about the murder of Mrs Clarkwell from the neighbouring village.

The old man gives this some thought, his tanned face titling to look at the sky, as though he can gauge the time from the sun alone. "Oh, 'bout thirty year or more, I reckon. Before I retired, I was a Chief Inspector in York."

This comes as a shock to Watson, as Mr Thompson's manner is not far from crossing the calming waters of the mind into gentler senility, although he seems happy enough in his life and is far from posing a threat to anyone, of this Watson is certain. He suspects Holmes already pinpointed the man's previous occupation, as there is not a hint of surprise on the detective's face.

"It is quite a different life choice, Mr Thompson," Holmes comments. "Rather an extreme step, some might say."

"Best decision I ever made," says Mr Thompson, a twinkle in his cool green eyes as he smiles. "All that crime an' blood an' depressing stuff. Left it all behind ta take care of these little fellows." He gestures again to the bees, then lifts a bony finger and wags it at them. "Mark my words, gentleman, there will come a day when you wake up and don't want ta see no more. The countryside and bees beckoned me, and I wasn't 'bout ta ignore Nature's calling." He leans back in his chair, a look of utmost content on his face, despite the fact that their visit is due to an act of crime. "There is nowhere I would rather be."

"I see," Holmes murmurs, and Watson is surprised to see him giving the man's words deep consideration, can almost see Holmes's thoughts as his gaze locks onto the thriving hives.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: I watched a Midsomer Murders episode with an elderly man who lived in a pretty cottage and kept bees – an idyllic lifestyle, which sparked this short idea. :-)_


	23. Christmas Party

_A/N: I found sunshine in my teapot today, not the usual angst tealeaves. Makes a change ... although the death toll of my posts is still rising. :-p_

 _Prompt 25: From Winter Winks 221 – Christmas party._

* * *

 **Christmas Party**

* * *

The not-so-honourable Sir Thaddeus Thornton the Third was a peculiar looking fellow, in life as well as in death. There he lay on the kitchen floor of Thornton Hall, his fleshy cheeks devoid of colour and drooping either side of his face, dull eyes pitched to the ceiling, blood pooling around his head and dripping into the grooves of the polished tiles. A revolver was resting in his right hand, lifeless fingers loose.

His son, Thomas Thornton the Fourth, was even more peculiar, his mood rather calm for one who had just lost a close relative.

Inspector Lestrade found his lack of reaction suspicious, kept one eye on him and one eye on the rolling pin that resided on the far counter, oddly tempted to walk over and render himself unconscious with it, so draining was the man's insistence that there was a party being held in the rickety bowels of Thornton Hall and his absence was most inconvenient, he being the heart of the event.

Sherlock Holmes was standing beside the body of Thaddeus Thornton, his hands in his coat pockets and a look of what appeared to be barely concealed amusement on his face. Although Lestrade could have been mistaken, as Holmes's expressions were always difficult to gauge. This he had learned the hard way. It was the fifth time Lestrade had taken Holmes to a crime scene, and only now because Holmes had been with him when the Inspector had received the telegram.

"Well, I don't rightly know what happened," Thomas Thornton said in a thick accent, when Holmes asked him to explain what had occurred leading up to his father's death. Despite his wealthy upbringing, Mr Thornton's tone reminded Lestrade of one who would take residence near London's docks, words not quite starting or meeting correctly. "One minute we're toasting the season, the next there's a loud bang and he's laying here all brown bread like."

"Come now, Mr Thornton," said Holmes with a brief smile. "Surely there is more to it than that?"

"I'm not sure what else you expect me to say," replied Mr Thornton impatiently, puffing up his round chest. "He clearly wasn't enjoying himself and decided to do something about it, didn't he? I can't say it's come as a surprise," he added, with a disapproving sniff. "This is just like my grandfather, Theo Thornton the Second, who blew his own brains out whilst on a hunt."

"How did he manage that?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm not sure. I hear my great-grandfather, Thaddeus Thomas Theo Thornton the First, met a similar end."

"My, my," Holmes murmured, his eyes glinting. "There are certainly a lot of deaths caused by guns in this family. One might say that is highly suspicious."

"Hardly," scoffed Thomas Thornton. "They were all completely senile and near-blind. Couldn't shoot a rabbit from a foot away, none of them. I, however, was graced with much better vision."

Judging from the way he squinted at them when he spoke, Lestrade was not so sure. He caught Holmes looking at him and shook his head in response, thinking that Thomas Thornton was walking directly on the path of that of his ancestors.

A smile twitched at Holmes's mouth. "I see."

"So, err, will that be all, Inspector?" Mr Thornton asked, his gaze narrowing onto Lestrade and looking somewhere to the left of the Inspector's shoulder.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, the party is still going, sir. I need to return to my guests."

"Your father is dead, Mr Thornton," Lestrade said sternly. "We need to establish the cause and gather statements."

"I imagine the hole in his head will answer that," said Mr Thornton, his tone sounding somewhat bored. "I wouldn't worry yourself, Inspector. He'll hardly be missed. No one liked the old sod anyway, least of all me. And no, before you ask," he added, his beady eyes flashing suddenly. "I did not kill him." He turned on his heel, his boots squeaking on the tiles and narrowly avoiding the blood surrounding his deceased father's head, and stomped out of the room.

Lestrade stared at the doorway he had walked through, indignation scuttling beneath his veins at the arrogance of the man.

He turned back to find Holmes watching him, not quite smiling, but it was a close thing.

"My apologies, Mr Holmes," Lestrade said. "It seems I've brought you out here for nothing save the ramblings of an eccentric."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure, Inspector," said Holmes. "Whilst it is not my idea of a social event, the circumstances have proved to be rather interesting. Now, let us see whether Thomas Thornton is being truthful with regards to the circumstances of his father's death." So saying, he crouched to examine the body of Thaddeus Thornton. "I suggest you speak to the guests and prepare yourself for a long night of lies and secrets. I would place money on it that someone here knows more than they are willing to admit. Yet in a place as curious as Thornton Hall, what more can one expect from a Christmas party?"

* * *

 **End**


	24. Food for Thought

_A/N: We're getting there …! I can see light at the end of the tunnel. No, wait, that's just another day ending. :-p_

 _Prompt 16: From Stutley Constable – I believe it is Italian food._

* * *

 **Food for Thought**

* * *

Watson does not suspect anything is wrong until Mrs Hudson walks into the room. The easy atmosphere which has scented the air for most of the day suddenly sours, tension rolling in thick like the evening-tinted fog pressing against the windows.

Their landlady is wearing an expression of annoyance, which turns into something dark and angry when she slams down the dinner tray and sets her eyes on Holmes. The detective meets her gaze evenly from where he is sat in his armchair, pipe clamped between his lips, a brief quirk of his brow the only indication that he has acknowledged her evident frustration.

This only seems to irritate Mrs Hudson further, and with a loud sigh she throws up her hands and stomps out of the sitting room, slamming the door behind her with a sharp crack of wood.

"What was that about?" Watson asks, and then before Holmes can answer, quickly adds, "What have you said to her?"

Holmes gives him a withering look, almost a scowl. "Watson, it is most offensive to presume that I am the one at fault here."

Watson stares at him, his tone challenging. " _Are_ you?"

His friend plucks at a loose thread on his dressing gown, seemingly debating whether to respond. "Before I answer that question," he states, "you must be informed that, whilst you were mourning your lost freedom as a bachelor with your dearly beloved wife in Brighton last week, I was subjected to what Mrs Hudson deemed an 'experimentation' with her meal preparations. She suddenly declared her desire to try out a different menu and I was unable to argue, as her mind was made up from the moment she proposed the idea. For this, I have Mrs Pennylow who resides three doors down to thank, as she has spent a considerable amount of time filling our landlady's head with exotic recipes from overseas."

"I fail to see the problem," Watson says honestly. "As far as I'm concerned, some variety in your diet, or _any_ variety, would not go amiss, Holmes."

Holmes's mouth curls slightly at the comment. "My own health aside, had Mrs Hudson conducted her own findings, I have no doubt it would have been fine. However, as Mrs Pennylow insisted Mrs Hudson use her recipe, I was forced to broach the result with utmost honesty to our good landlady, lest we fall foul to future dishes."

Watson sighs. "What did you say to her?"

"Water under the bridge, old fellow," Holmes replies, waving his pipe airily. "However, I fear I may have ... _perturbed_ Mrs Hudson somewhat with my choice of words."

"What did you say?" Watson repeats, measuring each word carefully.

"Nothing that warrants the stony reception she is bestowing upon me now," Holmes says defensively. "I meant no disregard, however I said something to the effect of not wishing to suffer the same fate of that of Mr Pennylow."

"Which was?"

"He has shaken off his mortal coil, Watson. He died within twenty-four hours of eating his wife's culinary experiments."

"And what dish did Mrs Pennylow serve to him?"

"I believe it was Italian food."

Watson shakes his head. "In other words, you insulted Mrs Hudson's cooking by suggesting you might die by her hand?"

"I did add that should something similar to me occur, I would hold no ill will toward her, although were I dead I would not be able to convey this in person." Holmes pauses, his gaze thoughtful as he glances into the fireplace. "For some reason it only made her coldness towards me worse."

"Holmes, you are unbelievable!"

Holmes gives him a look of wounded offence. "Even after I state my defence, you still feel I am at fault?"

"Entirely," Watson answers without preamble. "One hundred percent." He lifts the lid from his plate and glances at the food within with a small grimace. Gone are the familiar slices of meat covered in gravy to be replaced by spaghetti covered in an unfamiliar-looking dark sauce. Watson sighs, turns back to Holmes. "I suggest you go downstairs and offer a full apology to Mrs Hudson to end this dispute. Unless you wish to eat Italian food for the rest of your life."

* * *

 **End**


	25. Reunion

_A/N: Still seeing the light … no, wait. Another day ending. ;-)_

 _Prompt 11: From mrspencil – A character from an old case turns up unexpectedly._

* * *

 **Reunion**

* * *

Holmes and Watson are approaching Saint Paul's.

The sky is dull and rust-coloured, stains of dirty red disappearing behind the great dome of the cathedral as the day descends, to make room for a brooding storm.

Mother Nature is unsure of how to portray herself this evening. Everything around them looks painted, wet and smudged, rain falling in thick sheets and making the usually grimed-coated pavements shine. Through a watery frame of vision, they can see Lestrade waiting for them, his coat and hat blurred marks some distance away until they reach him.

"Inspector," Holmes greets, shaking Lestrade's outstretched hand.

Lestrade tips his hat with his free hand, water dripping from the brim. His eyes look tired, the usual glint erased, a weary hunch to his shoulders.

"Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson. Thank you for coming."

"What is this about?" Watson says, the merest hint of a smile touching his face before it vanishes. "The telegram sent was somewhat vague."

"I thought it best to speak to you here." Lestrade jerks his thumb across his shoulder, to the steps of the cathedral.

A body is lying there, limbs spread outwards, the chest and face covered by an overcoat which no doubt belongs to the constable standing in his uniform nearby, the policeman shivering minutely with the absence of a protective layer and the rain falling around him, but objecting none in respect of the dead.

"A theft gone wrong, I reckoned," Lestrade says, "but nothing has been taken. Watch and money is still on his person, so foul play is suspected. Also, the victim was recognised."

"You know him?" Holmes says, gesturing to the body. Watson moves away from them to crouch beside the deceased man, fingers hooking into the coat collar to pull it away.

"Not I personally," Lestrade replies, his face grim. "By a colleague, who said that you both knew of him. I was asked to send for you immediately."

"By whom?" Holmes asks. He is gazing at a spot to the right of the body, where a soaked, yet familiar frayed top hat is resting like an epitaph one step up. A sudden foreboding settles upon the detective, and he thinks he knows Lestrade's answer before the name has left the Inspector's mouth.

"Jones."

In the space of a few seconds Holmes has already put a name to this unfortunate before he hears the surprised noise coming from Watson, the sound a cut-off exhale of Holmes's name. The Doctor has lifted the coat, the fabric pulled back to reveal a round face, slightly thinner than before, the saggy cheeks looser. There is a stab wound on the upper chest, the hilt of the knife resting there and pointing heavenwards as though it was always meant to be, intrusive and anonymous. The shock of hair looks almost-brown and inky, the wet making it appear darker than the original fiery red it is supposed to be.

"Who is it?" Lestrade asks.

Watson glances up at Holmes, his lips pressing together. The rain hits the Doctor's exposed face and his expression is deeply saddened, thoughts no doubt going back to a familiar rust-coloured autumn day in 1890.

"It's Jabez Wilson."

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: There is something seriously wrong with me, lol. These are dark waters in which I lurk. :-p_


	26. A Rare Bird

_A/N:_ _This turned out a little longer than I intended. Whoops! Hopefully the long post will make up for my tardiness at completing this challenge. :-)_

 _Prompt 14: From Ennui Enigma – Another bird shows up on 221B's table for Christmas._

* * *

 **A Rare Bird**

* * *

Some years into my occupation as a private consulting detective, I believe it would have been fair to say that few things surprised me.

The shock and stomach-curling revulsion at seeing a brutally murdered and torn corpse, as was indeed the unfortunate end of Sir James Johnson during the first case of my career, would have been met with a much calmer resolve should I be shown a similar circumstance now. Murder and deceit had become as commonplace and familiar as the room in which they were brought to my attention.

Despite this observation, however, I was not at all prepared for the scene that greeted me upon my return during a cold Christmas Eve of 1888.

A thin layer of frost was beginning to settle as I headed back to Baker Street, a missive clutched in my hand concluding the case of the Honourable John Worthington and containing proof that would condemn a man to the gallows. The light was beginning to fade and I was eager to gather the remainder of my evidence before presenting it to Lestrade in two hours' time. In my haste, I fear I failed to take note of any presence of another to my home. I ascended the stairs, threw open the sitting room door and hovered on the threshold in a state of shock at the unexpected sight before me.

I dare not care to think of the number of times a man may have entered his abode to find a scantily dressed woman perched upon the sitting room table – certainly for myself it was to mark the first, and I hoped the last. To my consternation, I found I was at a loss of what to make of this alarming turn of events. A slackening of my jaw caused any words I may have conjured to take flight.

The lady in question, her age of about fifty-and-five, was very large in stature, taking up most of the space on the moderately sized table. Her demeanour was unmistakably suggestive as she leaned back, favouring her weight with one hand, her legs tucked beneath her and her bosom straining against the bodice of the bright orange dress she wore. The evening sun streaming through the window behind ignited the feathers in her greying hair and made them glow with a fiery intent, similar to the determined glint that I could see in her eyes as they latched onto me like a hunter seeking its prey. Her brightly painted lips parted somewhat, and I glimpsed a set of discoloured teeth as she smiled broadly at me.

What made the matter rather absurd was that I knew this woman, her appearance engraved in my memory as vibrantly as the posters dotted about London and in close proximity to the theatre where her fame was renowned. My initial reaction soon faded into acute displeasure as I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me.

"Mr Holmes," she fairly purred. "I have been waiting for you."

The statement was abundantly clear, if unnecessary. That she had been waiting was evident from the tableware which had been cleared from the surface she was reclined upon and placed on the floor beneath. A coat and scarf, a glaring shade matching her dress, were draped across one of the chairs.

"Mrs Peddipew," I said. "May I enquire as to what you are doing here?"

"There's no need to be so polite, Mr Holmes," she crooned, her voice pitched to a note more suitable to the stage than our current surroundings. "I believe you have already _deduced_ my intention, as clever as you are. I wished to pay a visit and express my _personal_ gratitude to you for finding Albert."

Her emphasis was not lost on me, yet any gratitude was erroneously misplaced, nor did I wish to receive it were it not. I intended to dissuade her on this notion immediately.

"I did not find him, Mrs Peddipew," I corrected. "He merely appeared."

"Only because you looked for him," said she. "I owe you a great debt."

Debt or no, I sincerely doubted that Albert, Mrs Peddipew's cat, would agree, as I had happened upon him entirely by chance and it was not he I had sought at the time. I still bore the marks upon my forearm from where the feline had scratched at me when I had freed him from the pantry of Mrs Peddipew's kitchen. Clearly he had not been at all pleased that I had revealed his hiding spot whilst investigating the disappearance of a heirloom left by the late Mr Peddipew at the Peddipew Manor, his contempt toward me apparent when I had returned him into his owner's arms. Never had I felt the weight of an animal's wrath so keenly as I had that day, those yellow eyes boring viciously into mine. Nor could I entirely blame him for his scorn, given the eccentric nature of his owner as she had fairly squeezed him near to death in a tearful reunion that was entirely one-sided. I had concluded the case with relative ease and left in the knowledge that I would see neither again. Given the choice of the two, I would have favoured seeing the cat.

"You owe me nothing, Madam," I assured her.

"Nonsense," said she, leaning forward eagerly. The fleshy wedge of her bosom balanced across the top of the bodice wobbled, looking ready to spill over. The seams pulled taut, it was a wonder that the material remained intact at all.

What was further impressive was the fact that the sitting room table had tolerated her considerable weight. The legs quivered worryingly beneath her bulk and I feared I would have to make explanations to Mrs Hudson and my fellow lodger should it suffer a demise. Not only that, but I had no wish for either Watson or our landlady to walk in and witness the scene before me. My urging that she remove herself, not just from the table but from the room, was met with a high-pitched laugh.

"You _are_ amusing, Mr Holmes," said she, although she did as I asked and tried to remove herself from her perch. I use the term _tried_ lightly, as my eyes were treated to two wide ankles as she lifted her skirts and shuffled to the edge before near toppling off, the table legs lifting as she did so before crashing back. If grace was a quality of opera singers, Mrs Polly Peddipew was terribly lacking. One was reminded of a seal trying to meander its way back into the ocean.

"I am in earnest, Madam," I said, trying to place a tone of authority into my voice that broached no argument. "I insist you leave at once."

"I will _not_ , Mr Holmes," said she defiantly, pale skin straining against silk as she puffed out her chest. "I said I would do you a kindness, and a lady of my standing does not go back on her word."

Her attention was wholly misplaced and I saw the determination in her gaze as she started towards me. I braced myself for the altercation that was no doubt bound to follow, as Mrs Peddipew's stubbornness was as well-known as her voice. Any initial reservations I may have had at the prospect of using force to halt her advances promptly vanished when I saw her hands reach up to loosen the laces at her back.

Fate, however, sought to intervene, though not in a way I could have predicted.

As she stepped closer, the toe of her boot caught on the rug and she stumbled. I had neither the time to react or step out of the way. Her chest crashed into mine and I fell backwards beneath her sudden weight. My spine connected painfully with the floor and air abruptly escaped from my lungs as Mrs Peddipew landed on top of me.

Winded and stunned, I laid in this undignified position, the feathers from Mrs Peddipew's hair piece stroking my cheek. I had a sudden understanding and sympathy for poor Albert, no doubt subjected to this unwanted attention every day in his owner's presence.

What I would have given to possess his feline reflexes to extract myself from my predicament. I was becoming somewhat breathless, attempting without success to move Mrs Peddipew off me, when the sitting room door opened, and Watson stepped into the room.

Even now, I cannot say who appeared more surprised. The discomfort, however, was entirely on my side as my friend's eyes fell on us and widened at the sight before him. I am not altogether sure if I were more relieved or horrified that it was the Doctor and not our landlady.

The only consolation I took from this sudden appearance was the knowledge that Watson had already met the esteemed Mrs Peddipew, he being present during the entirety of her case. Such had been his discomfort in her home when he was subjected to her penetrating gaze and constant touches to his arm, he a man to be wed and yet bound by the restrictions bestowing a true gentleman to push her away. I, however, had no objections to resorting to such measures, but at this current time I had neither the strength nor the capability, trapped as I was, and Mrs Peddipew made no attempts to lift herself. Warm, gin-scented breath tickled my neck as she clung to me and sighed in contentment, ignorant of any witness, seemingly happy to remain.

On reflection, neither Watson or Mrs Hudson would have been preferable, but as Watson's gaze met mine I detected he had already deduced a garbled version of events leading up to my being on the floor with a large woman curled about my person. I could not swear to it, but I thought I saw his lips quirk as he struggled to contain his amusement and a subtle twitch of his fingers. I sincerely hoped that this occurrence would not be committed to paper and was determined to gain some mastery of the situation, however minute.

"Doctor," I greeted, my voice a harsh wheeze as the crushing flesh of Mrs Peddipew pressed against my ribs.

"Holmes." His tone gave nothing away as he moved around us so that I did not have to view him upside down. An unnecessary twinkle glinted in his eye as he raised a questioning brow at me.

I saw I would have to swallow my pride, as smothered as it already was.

"Watson, would you be so kind as to assist me?"

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: Well, in all honesty, can we blame Mrs Polly Peddipew for trying? ;-)_

 _I read 'bird' and my rather mischievous mind couldn't get this out of my head. :-p Still, it makes a change from the angst. First time writing from Holmes's first-person POV too, so I hope it comes across okay. I tried to keep it in with the tone of the canon despite the crack-ish tendencies. I certainly had fun with it anyway!_


	27. Stolen Treasure

_A/N:_ _Not long to go now! Thanks for sticking around, guys, and for your lovely reviews. I have two more prompts to do. :-) I took some very teeny liberties around dates and writings with this one._

 _Prompt 15: From SheWhoScrawls – Treasure Island._

* * *

' _We must go on, because we can't turn back.'_

* * *

 **Stolen Treasure**

* * *

It was during one evening in December of 1881, the approaching Christmas marking the first during my acquaintance with Holmes, when I entered our sitting room to find my friend in deep discussion with a fair-haired gentleman of about thirty. The man's profile was present to me as I opened the door, a smooth cheek and moustached countenance my only glimpse of this visitor.

The tension in the air was as thick as the smoke that curled about the room, and I gathered I had walked in at a sensitive moment, judging by the way Holmes's visitor gestured frantically with both hands, leaning forward eagerly as he spoke.

"It is most important that I recover these papers, Mr Holmes," said he. "The deadline is in two days' time!"

"I doubt the retrieval will take half of that," said Holmes with ease.

"Then you know who is responsible."

"Did I say that?" Holmes mused, his demeanour suggesting that he had already settled his mind on this particular problem. His eyes alighted on me as I hovered on the threshold, unsure of whether to go or to stay. "Ah, Watson. Do come and join us."

At his words, the man on the sofa turned towards me and a smile broke out on his face.

"Doctor Watson," said he, all manner of nervousness diminishing as he rose from his seat to shake my hand with vigour. "I am a great admirer of your work, sir! It is an honour to meet you in person."

I glanced across at Holmes and he met my gaze with mild amusement. Any flattery I may have gleaned from the man's compliment was duly settled in my ignorance of not knowing who he was. The way this stranger greeted me had me wondering if his face should have been amongst familiar men I had seen in my past or during the year I had been living with Holmes in Baker Street. If the latter, then there was serious cause for concern for my memory.

I fancy my expression must have told of some of this, as Holmes gave a gentle shake of his head, immediately dispelling my fears.

"I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, sir," I said, turning my attention back to Holmes's guest.

"Not at all," he replied, waving away my apology. "Unless _Young Folks_ magazine graces the shelves of your reading material, I would not expect you to know of me. Although I have plans to publish through other channels. Perhaps after this horrid business is through I may be permitted to send you a copy of my book."

"Your book?"

"Indeed. Your opinion would be most welcome. It is fictional, but for a man like yourself it may appeal to your adventurous nature." He paused and his tone became solemn. "I have asked Mr Holmes to help me procure the final instalment of a serial publication, which I regret to say has been stolen."

"I am sorry to hear that, sir."

"As was I when I discovered it missing, Doctor," said he, the nervous tension creeping back into his frame as he began to pace. He reminded me somewhat of Holmes; thin and yet shorter in stature, with that restless energy which so often came over my friend when something was currently beyond his means. "I regret I would not be able to replicate that which I have already written, no matter how hard I were to try. To come so close to the end of a tale and be blackmailed with such disregard! A man's writing is his own treasure and worth more than its value in gold."

"And yet the blackmailer has put a price on yours," said Holmes. He was watching the man's movements with interest, a subtle glint in his eyes.

"That is because they think I am fool enough to pay it!" he cried, briefly tugging at his hair in frustration. "But I will not tolerate such folly. What is to become of me, Mr Holmes, if I were to submit to such demands upon my character?"

"What indeed," murmured Holmes, smiling behind his pipe.

"Ah, do forgive me, Doctor," the man said apologetically, turning to face me. "It has been a trying day. I realise I have digressed terribly and have not formally introduced myself. Let us start anew." He offered the slightest bow and extended his hand. "My name is Robert Louis Stevenson. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

* * *

 **End**


	28. (Not) What It Seems

_A/N: A thousand apologies for the delay, guys. I hit the lovely wall that is writer's block and am struggling to climb over it. Through or under seems the best bet. :-p_

 _Prompt 06: From Ennui Enigma - Holmes and Watson find themselves lost in Egypt._

* * *

 **(Not) What It Seems**

* * *

The sun is blazing hot, red and impossibly high, a fiery goddess with the strongest of tempers. Heat is seeping deep into their skin and resting behind muscle and bone. Sweat runs smoothly down their backs and the very air seems to shimmer and distort.

The ancient pyramids are standing to one side, proud and contained in their beauty, glowing golden in the noon day light. They are a sight to behold, yet neither man is paying them much heed.

Despite the intensity of the heat, Watson has one arm slung across Holmes's shoulder and Holmes has a hand wrapped around Watson's waist, his fingers uncomfortable and sticky where they press against the fabric of Watson's shirt. They both abandoned their coats some time ago, stripped down to shirtsleeves, collars opened.

"How are you doing, Watson?" Holmes asks, shifting his fingers to a firmer grip, his other hand clutching Watson's forearm to keep it from slipping off his shoulder. Holmes does not look great himself, his sweat-slick hair dishevelled and a bruise colouring his jaw line.

Watson sighs, feels the muscle pull in his leg with every step, unable to bend his left knee fully or walk upright without Holmes's support. He thought that by forcing himself to walk he could coax the limb into some kind of movement, even after the harsh kick to the back of his knee. He is seriously starting to rethink the decision.

"I've been better," he says truthfully. "Holmes, I think you should leave me here."

"First you insist to walk with me and now you wish me to leave you?" Holmes quirks a smile at him. "One might accuse you of giving mixed messages, Watson."

Watson shakes his head. He is too hot and in considerable pain, feels it curling upwards from his knee. "I meant let me go."

"Watson, you cannot stand unaided," Holmes says, rather unnecessarily, because Watson knows this.

"I don't think my leg will last," Watson warns. As if on cue, his knee buckles with their next step. He falls heavily, Holmes's fingers digging painfully into his hip as he struggles with the sudden pull of his weight. The pain curdles in his stomach and for a moment his visions clouds. When it clears, he is once again upright, favouring his uninjured leg and leaning into Holmes.

Holmes is watching him, the smile still touching his lips.

"Take heart, Watson. When Mycroft does not receive my missive, he will send help."

"How long will that be?"

"Soon."

"I seem to recall you saying the same thing four hours ago," Watson comments.

"Very soon, then."

The Egyptian models and artefacts are smirking at them, the pyramids gloating miniatures from behind their glass cases, burning from the light that bears down through the windows. A poster on the far wall boasts of the exhibition by Professor Jonathan D. Harewood, the bright caption concealing the fraud and corruption that they have unravelled within the last forty-eight hours.

They have been in this room since midnight, beaten and locked in, the scorching July summer unlike any they have ever experienced, made more so unbearable by the enclosed space. The doors either side have proven too formidable for Holmes's lock-picking skills, the windows pitched too high to climb.

Watson returns his friend's smile, grins through the pain. "Be that as it may, I don't think I wish to visit this museum with you again any time soon."

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: Hmm, I was stumped on this one. But 'lost', hot injured men in 'Egypt', what's not to like? ;-) Hope no one is too disappointed!_


	29. Revelation

_A/N: I wrote four versions for this prompt. The one I've gone for is entirely experimental and out of my comfort zone, so I'm a little apprehensive with posting this, but I enjoyed the challenge. ;-) Let us finish with a flourish or a flop, shall we? If you are unfamiliar with the choice of narrative, I hope you will give it a try. Although I definitely went off topic and down a more reflective route. :-p_

 _Prompt 31: From Ennui Enigma_ _–_ _New Year's resolutions for the 221B inhabitants._

* * *

 **Revelation**

* * *

It is not how you expected to spend your new year's evening, yet no one ever said living with Sherlock Holmes would be easy. If anything, it is becoming somewhat destructive, spiralled out of control from the moment you stepped over the threshold of 221B.

When you agreed to take up lodgings, when you shook Holmes's hand, you were never quite prepared for the amount of running that would be required of you. In fact, you did not know at all. You were but a shadow of a man when you struck up this alliance with Holmes, yet now you are more weighted (all for the better) and have flesh enough to support the strengthened muscles. Nevertheless, you have been abusing this renewed health.

In all honesty, you are surprised that your leg has tolerated this much.

But it has, and it continues to do so.

You are unsure which side of the Thames you are running along, but it hardly matters. The immediate surroundings are sparsely lit, as though the lamps themselves are ashamed to illuminate this grimy part of the city. Even the moon has conveniently hidden itself behind a cloud. The murky water is filling your senses and there is a foul taste in your mouth, as though you've been sucking on old pennies. The intelligent part of your mind puts it down to adrenaline. The instinctive part of your mind puts it down to fear, but it doesn't quite ring true. The pounding footsteps behind you are not too dissimilar of darker, war-driven days.

Your assailant is catching up.

Despite all this, your main concern is not for yourself, or the fact that the only weapon you possess is your cane. You lost Holmes to the bowels of the docks some time ago and have not seen him since. You think that the fear you are tasting is a reflection of your worry. It is not the nicest of feelings, makes your throat constricted.

But that may be because you can barely breathe.

You dart away from a muted timber yard and down a narrow street, more of an alleyway, hoping to lose your shadow. The moon chooses that moment to reveal itself and play the dirtiest of tricks, highlights the wall ahead in perfect clarity.

You slow, chest burning, listening to the footsteps of your assailant as he closes in. There is nowhere for you to go.

You turn. You've no desire to be shot from behind, even if that is what happened in your other life. You imagine that tonight you will be tasting wet cobbles, not the bone-dry grains of dirt. It makes your heart pound, causes your fingers to wrap tight around your cane.

The man who has been tailing you for the last ten minutes eyes you defiantly, the revolver clutched in his hand pointing at you.

"Any last words, Doctor?" he says. The gun trembles in his grip. Truth be told, he looks more scared than you, eyes darting from side to side, not quite meeting your gaze. You do not think he has ever shot a man in his life. He looks terribly young.

You say nothing. You did not beg for mercy in Afghanistan and you have no intention of starting now. You are also endeavouring to catch your breath.

"No final wishes?" he prompts, evidently stalling, hesitant to pull the trigger.

"If there were," calls a familiar voice, "they will not be wasted on you."

Sherlock Holmes is standing several feet behind your assailant, a gun raised and levelled at the back of the man's head. He spares a glance in your direction, but that is all. Part of you feels grateful that his gaze does not linger. Your heart is beating in earnest now, the throb of blood sinking down to highlight the pain in your leg.

The man too afraid to shoot knows better than to take his gaze from you, does not turn around. He glares at you as he addresses Holmes, his body shifting to angle towards your friend. "You may have a gun pointed at me, Mr Holmes, but I have the upper hand."

"I think not," says Holmes. He steps forward, the tap of his shoe echoing in the confined space.

"Don't come any closer!" the man cries, head jerking from Holmes to you, his voice sounding like cracked wood, brittle and desperate. "I'll shoot him, I swear!" He jerks his gun at you to emphasise his threat.

Holmes is calm, says with conviction, "No, you will not." He tilts his own gun and fires.

You duck instinctively, even though Holmes aimed deliberately high, but you are not taking any chances. You hear the man's startled cry and the clatter of his gun as it falls.

You wait a moment before you straighten, your movements cautious. Your assailant is still standing in front of you, fingers hanging loose. He looks as every bit relieved and broken as you feel. You realise futilely that you do not even know this stranger's name, were only given fragments of this case, like portions of a stained-glass window. Only Holmes has seen the full picture, which hardly seems fair, considering how much running you have done tonight.

Holmes approaches and picks up the fallen gun. The man does not try to stop him. He does not flinch as Holmes places a hand on his shoulder and whispers something to him. You cannot hear the words.

To your consternation, the stranger turns and walks briskly to the mouth of the alley. He glances from side to side before disappearing from sight, the darkness swallowing him whole.

You stare at Holmes, aghast. "You're letting him go?"

Holmes gives you a reproachful look. There is no doubt a reasoning to this, but you are not sure he will share it with you. You open your mouth to ask regardless, and it is at precisely this moment that your leg decides to give out.

A horrific flash of pain as bright as the tormenting moon, and then you are stumbling backwards, your coat rubbing and snagging on brick as you slide down the wall, cane falling from your grip as you clutch at your leg. For a dizzying moment you think you might black out. You blink away the sudden darkness, try to quell the rising nausea.

Holmes moves to crouch next to you, drops both guns to the ground. His fingers are a tight band around your upper arm as he keeps you upright.

"You're alright," he says, a faint smile on his lips.

You are not sure if this is a question or a statement, merely nod in reply.

"Holmes," you breathe, tiny hitches in your chest making his name splinter. "Where. Where were you?"

"Searching for you," he replies, scanning you from head to toe, no doubt tracking your movements from the past half hour. "Are you well?" A question this time.

"Fine," you reply, and your voice is back to normal, but you are not fine. You are annoyed now. You have spent most of this evening observing and hiding and running, and this was not the first time. You cannot recall the last new year's evening where you were not running for your life. You don't think that you have had that privilege since taking up residence with Holmes, can mark every new year that has passed so far with one of his cases, and none were in your favour. There were none from which you emerged unscathed.

For some reason, you feel strangely cheated, Holmes's level of concern dispiriting. Fine needles of anger skirt beneath your skin, mixing into your blood where the adrenaline is rapidly dissolving. Your leg feels like it is made of lead.

"Watson." He says your name on an exhale, a trace of humour in it, as though he finds your annoyance amusing. He releases his grip on your arm to sit next to you, knees drawn up. He tilts his head back to the wall, gaze drifting skywards. You are too tired to argue with him.

In the distance, you fancy you hear bells, a toll of the midnight hour. Another year is beginning.

As you look at the sky with its large playful moon and smudges of cloud, you think perhaps you should make a resolution to try not to get chased or killed every year, or certainly not on new year's. Perhaps you should take precautions and leave each Christmas, seek a holiday somewhere North, not return until the whiteness of the new year is rubbed and grey. You are not sure you can do this again, feel that your leg will still have this pain a year onwards. You feel damaged, not entirely whole, and a small part of you wants to blame Holmes for feeling this way.

"Watson."

A definite sigh of your name this time. You turn to face Holmes, find him watching you intensely. He has taken his cigarette case from his pocket and has lit one, holds the case out to you.

As you accept the offering, he lowers the glowing tip of his cigarette to yours, intones softly as you lean in, "I would not dwell on it too much, my dear fellow. Resolutions tend to bring about bad feelings and the worse of luck, even with the best of intentions."

You look at him in shock, however this mind-reading capability he possesses should no longer come as a surprise. Holmes always knows what you are thinking.

"Ah," he says, and that is all. He is grinning behind the soft curls of smoke.

You would be extremely offended if you did not know him so well. Instead you shake your head, cannot stop the smile tugging at your lips. In truth, you are inclined to agree with him. As you look at Holmes now, his eyes glinting like steel and amusement held therein, you do not think resolutions will make the slightest bit of difference.

It is not the life you expected, yet you realise with painful clarity that you will do this again, and there will be no regard for your safety. The pain in your leg will always be a mere insignificance. You will follow Holmes into the unknown and risk life and limb, be it a new year's eve or a Christmas morn or a cold afternoon in May of 1891, as this is what Fate has chosen for you.

You will continue to run.

* * *

 **End**

* * *

 _A/N II: Alas, my lovely readers and friends, it is done. Despite my unforgivable lateness at completing this challenge, I'm both delighted to have finished and most saddened it has ended. :-) I cannot thank you all enough for taking the time to comment. Your reviews have been most encouraging, greatly appreciated and wonderful to read. Well done too for getting through what has been, on the whole, a brimming teapot of angst!_

 _On another note, I hope to start a new submission with one-shots, scribbles and angsty goodness very soon. :-) This challenge has made me realise how much I enjoy writing and the creative outlet and practice it provides, with or without the cursed writer's block. Wherever this Weary Traveller goes, I will be most excited if I see you along the way._

 _Until then, my very dear friends. x_


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